She's asking again, "Where is it? Where is it, Momma? I don't want to miss it." Swooshing by the driver side there it goes, Eden-like turf and bright silk flowers, granite stones arranged in rows. The cemetery. We are mapping my jog route. Sometimes I run past a sweeping cemetery acreage, breathe in the tide of fresh cut grass. It's just another bend in the road that Janie imagines is paradise.
On the way to church we see another one. They are everywhere. These strange portals into eternity blend into parks and crosswalks, school zones and small shouldered roads that sail us through a winding city. When is the last time you noticed one? They are invisible, almost.
"Hey Momma, I know that there are a lot of people in heaven," Jane explains, "because I look at the stones of when people have died and I just notice there are a lot." Yes, a lot. She thinks they knew Jesus. And so the way of childhood sees picnics and tumbling somersaults in a cemetery.
2 comments:
The impossiblitiy of non-belief. Indeed, we must become as children.
I just love her. So simple.
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