"Heaven"
I drive the narrow strip of pavement through the graveyard and stop at the pine tree on the left – turn off my car and sit. Think about the ridiculousness of this gesture. I will get out of my car, and walk to her marker, brush away the leaves, place a single flower on top of the cold stone, and what? What do I expect? I do not think the spirit of my mother knows, or cares that I do this on her birthday – the day she died. If there is a heaven, she is busy playing with children. Drinking screwdrivers at noon. Sitting at kitchen tables with her sisters and laughing until one of them blurts stop, she’s peed her pants – seriously. Or she will be dancing. Or she will be around horses. She is most definitely smoking. She is crying out of happiness for someone other than herself. And she will be watching over the courageous souls who answer the phones at distress lines – the voices of the troubled, desperate and sometimes suicidal met with kindness and gentle compassion – because, this is something she knows. Maybe she is in the palliative care unit at the General, standing guard over the final steps of strangers – because she also knows this journey. But I do not believe in heaven outside of this moment, this morning, this breath, this pale blue ripped grey sky, and this small smile as I remember my mother, again.