ANGELS ALL AROUND US By "Blue"

"Mommy," my daughter said to me before she died, "I will be an angel. I will be with you wherever you go." But she wasn't. I couldn't find her. And I'd lost me, too. It seemed like forever. It seemed like last week. Without my daughter, there was no separation of days and nights, of weeks and months. Even the pain of my divorce had dissolved in the searing heat of Amy's Leukemia.

The year after her death, I moved to the small village of San Juan Cosala in the heart of Mexico. I was trying to escape the memories, trying to mend the deep dark gash in my soul, trying to find me. It was a simple life without computers and business lunches . . . without Tinker Toys and Barbie dolls.

I wrote and I walked and I wept.

One late afternoon, while hiking in the lush green mountains above Lake Chapala, I saw a Huichol Indian man and his gangly gray dog. He was leaning against a tree, playing his flute.

The music wafted back, riding on an August breeze and encircled me with its charm. As I crept closer, he stopped playing, turned to me and smiled.

"Mas music, por favor," I said in my best Spanglish. He played another tune and then invited me to sit and talk. Manuel Ortega had taught himself English while working as a waiter in a village restaurant. He was a quiet, gentle man and before long, he became my living guide to Mexico. He showed me where to buy cheese and chickens, where to get my car oil changed and how to avoid paying parking tickets. He encouraged my feeble attempts to speak Spanish and made me smile again.

The week before Christmas, we went back to the Chapala mountains for a hike - Manuel and I, his dog Chuy and my new camera. The foothills were brown now. Rainy season had ended in September.

"Por favor, Karina," Manuel pleaded with me for the second time that week. "We are needing you to be helping with the Christmas fiesta for our orphans." He spoke softly, a rich Spanish accent blending with his deep velvet voice.

"Let's stop a moment, Manuel. This is a beautiful view. I leaned against a tree and aimed my camera at the village below, trying to capture the mosaic landscape of cobbled streets and brightly-colored homes.

I thought about his simple request with a stab of guilt. How could I say "no" to this friend who had given me so much? All he wanted was time-something I had plenty of. But he couldn't understand that every child reminded me of Amy, that their laughter hurt my heart. As I adjusted the focus, struggling to see through salty tears, I imagined what the orphanage would be like. Images of poverty, sadness and sick children swirled in my head. "I can't help," I whispered, still looking through the lens. "Please understand, Manuel. I'm ... I'm just not ready."

Manuel dropped the subject and we continued in silence. After walking another hour, I caught sight of the Ninos y Jovenes orphanage in the distance. My knees trembled. My lips quivered. "You tricked me." I couldn't face him.

He tipped up my chin and looked at me with sad sable eyes. Then he took my hands in his. "Trust me, Karina." I followed him, shivering.

As we neared the orphanage, he said, "One hundred and sixty childs are living in this place." On that sunny December afternoon, they were busy sweeping the grounds, hanging clothes and studying under the trees. Manuel began playing his flute. A herd of goats, grazing in the field, bleated in defiance of our intrusion.

Some of the children ran towards us, shouting, "Amigo, amigo."

They scurried around Manuel, laughing and dancing to his music, waving their hands and talking - all at the same time.

He reminded me of the Pied Piper.

"What are they saying?" I asked, ashamed I hadn't yet learned their language.

He laughed, pulling a small child up on his shoulders and kneeling so one more could climb onto his knee. "Chicken and cookies. They are saying the Padre, he is promising them chicken and cookies for Navidad."

I knelt down too, my heartstrings taut. Amy would have been seven next month, about the same age as the little Mexican girl. I buried my face into the shiny black hair of the young girl on Manuel's lap. She put her tiny hand in mine, looking at me with wide brown eyes and a smile that filled her face.

"Como te llamas?" I asked her, hoping she could understand me.

She pointed to herself and said "Angela."

My heart caught in my throat. I pointed to myself and said, "Karina. Mucho gusto." I stood up, barely able to breathe, then leaned against a tree and closed my eyes. Angela. Amy had said she'd be an angel. She'd always be with me.

"Your Amy," Manual said as though he were reading my thoughts, "she is being here, in the faces and the love of these childs." Manuel stroked Angela's hair.

An older dark-skinned boy, dressed in bright Huichol Indian clothing, walked towards me with flowers he had picked. He lowered his eyes and spoke to me in Spanish. I looked to Manuel for help.

"This boy is Andres. He is asking, `Will you come to the fiesta de Navidad?'" I looked into the boy's face. His crooked smile reminded me of Amy's. His eyes were bright and full of mischief. He handed me the flowers and a single tear rolled down my cheek. Andres reached up to touch it as he waited for my answer. I managed a quivering smile and nodded my acceptance, unable to speak.

Manuel gently lifted Angela from his knee and placed her on the ground. He stood to face me. She put one of her tiny hands in his and the other in mine. Over her head, Manuel smiled at me.

"The healing, Karina, it can begin now."