I dreamed what heaven was as I walked along, plainly, along the wharf museum I walk along daily. The old ship, the tourists, the custom house, the blue sky! The fussy federal park service going about its business noisily and lazily. In a summer nonchalance close to evening I passed a tourist child gesturing, solitary, small groups of adults resembling trees, most from somewhat far away, I'm guessing. This was heaven. The weather near the pier a blessing. My Massachusetts neighborhood a setting as good as any for somber, sunlight-on-the-horizon, ruminations. I thought, how pitiful most conceptions of heaven are: a pleasant place somewhere else. Really? Is that all? Heaven must be something else. (In my literary heart I respect Dante's try--- Beatrice harmonious and alone in the light of stars sitting atop actual punishments of hell.) I thought: maybe heaven is here and I will move about invisible, free to inhabit the thoughts of others, free to notice everything. Sorrow and pain unreal because in my heaven it is clear life's unreal. There's nothing to fear. All sorrow brightens to relief. This is what I thought. To ask: "is that the sun?" To close my hand and catch the thief.
