When there used to be heaven

I grew up with heaven as the good place where good people go when they die. As I grew older and its believability faded, I held onto the idea because it gave me a comfortable way to think about relationships. I got hurt sometimes. Real people hurt me. And boy oh boy, have I slugged a few stomachs in my day.

Heaven is where we all met again. Just as we were (perhaps a little younger). In lawn chairs under afternoon sunlight maybe, recollecting scars and grudges like pranks we played on each other; recalling anger and regret like odd outfits of clothing we put on to entertain ourselves. Stories of being human. All forgiven.

I have a big, open heart. It goes cold and heavy, but it’s never stayed that way. I got wounded sometimes. I struck some mean blows. I would look at the others and imagine them laughing with me. ‘In heaven,’ I would think, ‘we’ll all understand.’

 

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