As we pulled into the church parking lot for the funeral, it began to rain; by the time the music started, it was pouring. Lightning snapped, dimming the lights a couple times. My mother's favorite part was the thunder: when it boomed the thought popped into her mind, "That's Bill Bly, pounding on the gates of heaven!" She hasn't yet said whether she thinks he was let in or not. For the moment I stand alone where my father stood when his father died, with the walls down all around me, seeing what he saw with my eyes. And I think I can see heaven: if we can enter it, it can only be here, where we come from, whence we go, the place where love is crossed with death to bring forth love.
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