Perhaps the proper question to ask is not "Where do we go when we die?" but rather "What do we leave behind?" At the punch-and-cookie reception after the funeral, my mother kept saying to herself, "I'll have to tell Bill about all these people..." and then remembered. Across from where my mother sits at the kitchen table will always be my father's chair. Love stays here. Love brought us into the world, love sends us hence; from the unknown into the unknown. Love keeps us, while we're here, shelters us in the daily from the immensity we cannot bear to behold except in glimpses. And love attends the devastation of those glimpses.
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