Michi und Jonas have turned the living room upside down: a landscape covered in cloths and blankets fixed with clothes pegs. They are wearing golden cardboard crowns on their heads, holding a crystal in one hand and a diabolo sceptre in the other, and with serious faces are descending Jacob’s ladder – in other words, from the cupboard to the table to the chair to the bench and the stool. A somewhat precarious trail.

“And when will the others come?” – “They’re coming in a minute, they’re still looking.” – “Still looking ...?” – “Psst, quiet!” Silence descends. In the meantime I have chopped up carrots and tomatoes to go in the pot, put on the water for the noodles and think about what I have heard: “What about angels? Just kids’ stuff? Are children still close to the angels? And do I (still) know angels? Have I already had experience of angels? Certainly, there have been moments in my life when my guardian angel has been kept busy. Or was that pure coincidence? A bit of luck?”

It is still silent. I continue my train of thought: “Why do we call a person we love ‘angel’? Have other people guided and protected me? Yes, I am aware situations in which I was rescued – as a child from physical danger, as an adult from inner disaster by people who opened up a new horizon when my thoughts were trapped in a vicious circle and my ideas turned into caricatures. Being close to the angels probably does not happen by itself, as it does with children. How can human beings and angels come together at all?

Things start up again next door. “See, the others are also coming, they’ve discovered us.” I peer carefully round the corner. They are sitting on the floor in a cave, the one with a headtorch and a cord, the other with a wooden sword and a lyre. They have tied up the hobbyhorse at the entrance.

At this point they notice me. “We are knights!” – “Same riders.” – “He means Samaritans. We help the poor,” the older brother corrects his younger sibling. “Ah, I see!” I disappear into the kitchen again. “We’re inviting all the angels for a pizza because they also get hungry. There is only pizza for angels at the angel restaurant.” “And you know, everyone can become an angel!”

Then silence descends again for a while. The food is ready and I go to call them. They are sitting on the cupboard. “We’re back in heaven,” they say from on high. “We only come when people give us something to eat.” – “Well, that’s good timing. Why don’t you come down, dinner is on the table. Do angels also eat spaghetti with a vegetable sauce?” I ask. “Yes, you get spaghetti down here and we’re learning how to eat them.”

So that’s how it is, I reflect, and say: “A good thing that we can feed the angels.”