The dust of silent angels

What if Heaven is across the street from an aging office park? Available to those willing to trespass onto private land to walk down the rows of orange trees wearing their delicate blossom coats in the dark. 

I always wanted to stay there longer than I felt I should and never did sit down below them resting my head back against their short sturdy trucks to look up through their shiny leaves into the night. 

I always wanted to, but I never did. 

But once when I was feeling especially bold I stole away from the perimeter I usually traveled past the towering fig tree with its canopy of fans and fruit and I walked deep into the grove and felt like I was dressed only in the heady perfume of thousands of someday oranges. 

I stepped in mud up to my ankle and gave thanks for the trees and the hold-out farmers who still tended to their roots among the lumbering office blocks and modern apartment complexes and walked home convinced I had the dust of silent angels on my shoes.