That angel was nineteen when that of Mercy came for her. She had been born in a middle class family and she had grown with her parents and brother in the little tragedies of common life which lead nowhere: bad marks in Mathematics, a fight with her brother, or he with her, and from joy to tears and vice versa, as any child who ever was on the world from the beginning of times. And then Muriel suddenly appeared while she was sleeping.
“You have finished your time, Elizabeth”, he said while cutting her silver thread. “It is time for you to come back with us”.
“But I do not want to leave my parents!”, she moaned, “nor my brother Facundo. What will become of him?
“Your brother will learn to live without fighting you”.
Isabel looked at the Angel of Mercy with grief, but as her silver thread fell to the ground, she remembered why she had gone to these people, and she smiled. She also remembered who her parents and siblings were really. And she knew that those children fights with his brother were meaningless now. And her discussions with their parents. Those beings whom she was now leaving in the world in fact had nothing to do with her. Not any more. Many of them she had found in other lives. With the one who had been her father in this life she had been married in another century and had six children. Only that she had been the man that time, and her recent father, his wife. This kind of things can happen when you reincarnate, disregarding your sex or previous relationship in other lives.
So what was the purpose of this transfer of lives? But no sooner she had asked the question than she had the answer.
“Come on, Elizabeth”, said her already colleague Muriel. “Your judgment awaits”.
“Yes, my judgement”, she said smiling. Just a few days before she was worried that God should ask her in front of everyone about her solitary masturbation, her little grudges, her school attacks, her lies, hatred and her little tiny transgressions of God's law. She recalled that none of them was important. But the charisma that she had spilled on her friends and all the people she had met had more than made up for the little damage that could have been done by her mistakes and omissions:
“The Trial”, she went on, 'Yes, I did not remember. Judgement Day”.
“How many times you have made the Final Judgment, Elizabeth?”
“Six, Muriel. And this time will be my seventh”.
She would find God again, yes; and Peter, Paul and several archangels. What was she going to tell them? They knew everything about her. During her nineteen years they had seen her day to day. All her mistakes, one after the other. And all her hits. No, she could not say anything, neither for nor against. She could not explain anything because it was all clear. Neither she could plead guilty or innocent. Or feel sorry for the sentence she deserved.
“Well”, Yuliel said, “it seems that you have not done so bad. Would you like to go back?”
“Yes, of course. I would, Sir”.
They looked at each other. The five judges exchanged glances, and finally Paul summarized the sentence:
Ten years had gone by. Her brother Facundo, who was already an experienced engineer, had married Agnes, one of Elizabeth's best friends, when they were both crying for her friend and his sister at her funeral. Ten months after they married the fruit of their love came to the world.
“If is a girl you we'll call her Elizabeth, Facundo, like your sister, who was the one who brought us together. It was the last thing that she did, the poor little thing”.
But they could not because it was not a girl, but a boy. His name was Isidro.
For the eighth time her spirit became flesh. And though for a couple of years she still saw the heavenly spirits, that power was getting lost with time. When he was able to talk and tell what was happening, after three years, Isidro no longer remembered that once he had seen them or that he used to be Elizabeth, his dead aunt. Neither he remembered his mission was to help his grandparents and his brother, now his father, to have a good death.