My son, the Cadillac man, and I stand looking at the angel statue.
Specifically at her pink toenail polish.
“Really?” he says in disgust. “Painted toenails?”
I giggle. “I know! How many depictions of angels have you seen with painted toenails?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen an angel with feet.”
I start to laugh, but . . . the way he says that . . .
He turns, walks off in his unassuming, old-soul way. I watch him go, wondering.
I said depictions.
He said he’d never seen an angel with feet.
Not that he’d never seen an angel.