“But it was the broken statue in the corner that drew Elizabeth's attention: a seraphim in despair leaned casually there against the back gate.
"That's Beulah," said Cutter, following her gaze. "Well, for Beulah. Beulah was my great-grandmother and the angel was there on her grave till the storm of sixty-eight knocked her over. She's my garden angel."
"Your garden angel?"
"When I was about seven or so, I heard about guardian angels, how everyone's supposed to have one. Only I heard it garden angel. And I thought of Beulah's angel in the dead garden. I knew she was my garden angel."
Cutter's hands fluttered over the statue, her touch reverent, light, brushing off leaves, stroking the stone face, like feeling the forehead of a feverish child. Moving closer, Elizabeth saw that Beulah was not in despair after all. She was just waking up, maybe, shaking off an afternoon doze, one arm thrown over her face, a dimple in the elbow of a plump arm, her mighty wings curled around her body like wilted leaves.
"I can't tell you how many times I've thought of her before exams, my driver's test, job interviews, even when Gran died. I close my eyes and picture her and I know things will be all right. At least they seem better.”