Life & Other Problems: Heavenly

Here I am in heaven – I think. I haven’t the faintest idea how I qualified, but this must be it. I see angels over there, plucking away on their harps. In the distance cherubim and seraphim are dancing and – oh, for Pete’s sake! There’s my old cat.

“Stripey! Stripey darlin’! However did you get here?”

Back and forth he parades, rubbing my legs, transmitting his ponderous, regal purr to my entire body.

“Oh,” he says. “It wasn’t that bad back in 1941 when your mom made you take me back to the barns at Michigan State. I was sad at first, but, hey, I don’t mind telling you I met a good number of friendly felines and had around 33 kittens over the years.”

He didn’t have to say this aloud, you understand, but he definitely let me know all about it. That’s heaven for you.

Moving along, closer to the cherubim, I begin to hear strains of flute music. It’s Bob! My first husband, who could wrangle beauty out of the most overused, or radically complex, musical scores. His sensitivity attracted me in 1952, when siren tones came floating through the Michigan woods at Interlochen Music Camp. And here he is, flute in hand. We wave and make motions intended to convey the idea that we’ll get together sometime soon. He plays for the spirits and I go on, remembering my first love, tender and exciting. Twenty-three years later, when that love had turned into something resembling clay, I thought life was all over for me.

It was not. Life went on.

Soon I hear a motorcycle purring along the path, approaching from behind. No mistaking that basso throb. I turn to see my second husband perched on his black Honda 1100.

“Russ!” I say, “You’re here? I can’t believe it! You always said you weren’t heaven material, and, you know, I really had to agree. What happened?”

“Ah, my dear,” said old Silver Tongue, “I had a few words, man to man, with my new friend Peter. The saint, that is. He searched all over the rule book. And you’ll be amazed. Do you remember when Father Phil came over to do my last rites?”

“I do remember,” I said. “I was really interested in his A-B-C approach to morality.”

I flashed back to the scene, Russ prostrate on his hospital bed, confronting the priest and his own dubious past antics.

“Russ,” said the good father, burping slightly and emitting the slightest scent of gin, “did you ever intentionally hurt anyone?”

There was a very long silence, but finally Russ ventured, “Well, no. Not intentionally, I guess.”

“The only sins,” said Father Phil, “are sins of intention. You have no sins, my son.”

Poof! Wow! I was beginning to like this religion.

Today Russ pulls his sunglasses into place. “Hop on!” he says.

“I will, but not right now,” I reply. “I still have to check out a few things. See you around.”

There is that soft rumble as he starts to move away. I hear a faint, “I’ll find you,” as he fades into the distance.

Moving on, I see a library. A sign on the door says “Wireless Access Inside.” I enter, and there, the sun’s rays falling on his dear graying head, sits Jack, clicking away with rapt concentration. I’m not at all surprised to find Jack in heaven. He was as steady as a rock during the many years of our marriage.

“Oh, Jack! I just knew you’d be here,” I say, leaning to put my cheek next to his.

“Look at this crazy thing on Facebook,” he says, eyes glued to the screen. I look. “Welcome to heaven, Clarice!” the message says. “Please check out our 20,000 new custom apps.”

All those apps. Maybe I’m in hell after all. A glance around reassures me. I might deal with apps, someday. Might not, too.

“Maybe heaven won’t be as boring as I once feared,” I think, as I head out to find a place to eat. This morning, just inside the gates, an angel dressed like a farmhand said to me, “Don’t miss the Celestial Diner. Home cooking. It takes a heap o’livin’ to make home cookin’, little lady. The apple pie is to die for.”

It turns out to be true – the pie is delicious. A lot like my Mom’s, actually.

Hmm, Mom’s? Could it be . . . ?

Here I am in heaven, and it’s a whole lot like earth, like the life I just left. Maybe, just maybe, I was in heaven all along, all those years, those good years.

I scrape the bottom of the pie plate, lick a sticky fingertip.

Heavenly!