On our garden walks Mama always used to tell me, 'Angels live in gardens, Darcy.' 'Where?' I would ask, looking around for the white-winged beings I saw drawn on my Sunday school papers.
'Close your eyes and breathe deep.'
'All is smell is flowers, Mama,' I would say.
'Not so. That's the breath of the angels. And the stirrings you hear in the leaves are their wings brushing past.