A Place with Promise

I haven't really thought much of heaven. In the same vein as I refuse much to care about the day after the much talked about day in December 2012. If I go, I go. In the meantime I tell people I love them a lot. And besides a childrearing where to open up the box to a gift, I must have had already drafted my first draft of a thank you note (before being allowed to write it on the nice paper), I believe strongly in the thank you note. For the reasons we are all familiar with, etched in concrete in our cliche, it could all be over, and I want people to know I'm really thankful. And I hope they have a great birthday. And I'm sorry for their loss. Because those things can't be said when we leave, and those around us leave, or when we grow distant.

Thank you so much.

So I don't know if it's the being really present in my gratitude of todays gifts, or the writing of cards which keep me and the US Postal Service busy, I forget about heaven. It's somewhat surprising since even at stop lights I like to long at drivers in cars next to me imaging where they work and live, what cereal could be their favorite, whether they're in love and where they bought their sunglasses and what makes them dream.

I can create a story and a visual around a parked car - until I get honked at.

But heaven is a place I don't think of much, to even my own surprise.

Easter and the rise of Christ is a reminder, and death. A death is a reminder.

Even the worst in most animals in better than the best in people. They are beloved because their innocence is not forced or in fear of disappearing, and their lifelong need to belong to you never dicipates.

My little cat is an asshole, and most time I see her in the hallway I greet her with a "oh you're still here." But I secretly love her. Like I love a lot of people - and as this story goes - animals outside of four corner box of my immediate life.

Several weeks ago a bunny I petsat for - for 10 years, passed away. For it's life it was always good with dogs, and even reasonable affectionate with humans, but as long as I knew him, he'd never let me touch him. This past December, he sat in my arms, and while I claimed some win for finally getting what I'd always wanted - to pet him, I knew now that his stobbornness had washed away from his spirit, he'd too fade away. Unable to hop anymore, losing control over his back legs, he no longer belonged in this place. He died not many months after.

Last night, my adopted family's treasured adopted rescue also succumbed to failing kidneys and old age. Named Wendy for the Peter Pan classic, I only imagine most write or speak or remember their animals for being supremely "happy," and she, well so was she. I had tried to kidnap her on ocassion declaring she'd be happier living in Los Angeles with me, but unspokenly we know the obvious, this dog was happy right where she was, and anywhere she was. She dug, and took a very much needed nap on your lap, and not like your dog, she was a very good dog. The best dog.

When my friend emailed me today to tell me, because she knew I'd want to know, we spoke of how her cat, Promise, would very much welcome Wendy to heaven.

I hadn't thought about heaven, I thought. But I did, I started.

"Oh I bet Promise just looked over her shoulder at Wendy there, rolled her eyes, and turned her head away."

We both laughed. Promise was something else.

But in thinking of Wendy, and Promise, and that bunny hop hopping his way in to the afterlife, I thought about heaven. A place and story constructed in my head, to find comfort in their loss, in their presence. That their memory, their interaction, with me, and each other, will remain intact. Their spirit, finding permanence after their life. In my mind do they always live? Or hippity hopping, taking long afternoon cat naps, and chasing cats, they will have for always. I will only chase the dragon to know. In the meantime I just like to think of them, be a bit sad, and smile with the gratitude of their presence in my present.