Heavenly

A cardinal splits the almost-white sky like a wound in soft flesh. He shoots by, and I stop in my tracks. I didn’t expect him here at the end of the road. Immediately, I think of Dad. I remember him stopping in his tracks too for a cardinal or an eagle or just a gingko tree. For an instant, I feel him again. But can he feel me? Unbidden, questions scuttle through my mind. Wherever he is, does he hear me? See me? Ever, ever think of me? Does nature here indeed reflect Heaven, or do we just imagine that it does because the thought comforts us, allows us to sleep on nights when the other side of the bed is empty?

Golden streets, we imagine. Rushing, crystal water. Lush gardens. An endless sun (Son?) in a sky with no curling edges. Our pets scampering about. Rolling fields where children play. Flowers more brilliant than our eyes can stand. Snowflakes for no good reason. Is that the way it is?

I imagine that he has a garden. Here, he said he wasn’t creative enough to design a garden plan. Maybe he wasn’t, but if Heaven is perfect, does he create endlessly there? Maybe it was all mapped out there, ready for him. Maybe all he does now is stroll along pebbled paths and breathe deeply of some sweet air I have never known.

I imagine he has a window with wooden shutters. They’re chipped and peeling (not because they wear out, but because God designed them that way). I want to believe that, sometimes, on those afternoons when my lack presses on my chest and begs, he feels me. I hope he walks softly to that one window, unlatches the shutters, and peers down at me for a moment. I want him to see me because I see him everywhere.

But that cardinal is long gone by now, crimson wings fluttering in some tree in the deep  woods. I have stood here for long enough, so I begin to walk back. I remember tip-toeing down the yellow line in the middle of the road. I remember Dad stopping in the middle of a long stride to examine the earth. I imagine a window and hope, hope, hope that he sees me.