ANGELS | Connie Fox Just in the last few weeks beginning to see myself as "old folks," wheel-chairs and hearing aids, memory loss, "Please rise for the Amidah," and barely able to get to my feet, writing "fight" instead of "feet," thinking a lot about my parents moving from Chicago to Sun City, California, out by San Bernadino, like all the "developments" around here, only out in the desert, plastic ranch houses, the first house they ever owned, "My little house," my mother would say, after most of her life drooling over houses she couldn't/ didn't want to afford, her and her big Napoleon and Josephine sofa with these medallions of Napoleon and Josephine carved into the back, after my father died breaking her hip in the garden and ending up in Mount San Antonio Gardens in Pomona, "All these educated people," classy,nice rooms, nice dining room, good food, but she still had to die, keeping thinking about DaVinci and Soleri, Aldous Huxley, Cary Grant, what's her name, Gigi, My Fair Lady, Audrey Hepburn, will even I, Ms. Perfect Tits and Legs, sag and shake and have to die, Shalom Aleichem, Malachei Hamalachem, why couldn't I have been an immortal angel?