I once read that heaven is all our best memories times a million. If that’s the case, then I hope heaven is:
Christmas Eve, with soft blue lights against the snow-frosted windowpanes, chipped beef and crackers, Pepsi in plastic cups, and sleepy candlelit services;
Summer afternoons at the neighbors’ pool, bowls of raisins in the air conditioning, and time lost in an unforgettable book;
Birthday parties with homemade cake, chocolate marshmallow ice cream, and lots of giggling;
Flashlight tag on the cul-de-sac, building forts by the creek, and digging for fossils in the backyard;
Gathering around the dinner table, talking a mile a minute, and heaping on the seconds;
Twirling in front of the mirror in a pink prairie dress and bonnet, and running through North Carolina tobacco fields;
Tucking into a booth for a soft-serve ice cream cone after a hot, sticky baseball game, and a cool bath before bed;
Shopping with Mom for back-to-school clothes, and grabbing lunch after;
Driving through the country with Marty Robbins on the tape player, and Dad singing along;
Sprinkled doughnuts for breakfast, and a Sunday flea market;
Hiding away in a bookstore with my husband, and sharing a decadent dessert over a cup of tea;
Watching my kids build their own heavens, and being there to share it with them.
Times a million, of course.