Maybe Heaven

I'm standing at the kitchen window when I see something moving beyond the orchard fence. At first I think it's one of Dad's cows, maybe a calf, and then I remember that there are no longer any cows here. Then a deer lifts her head, sniffing the air, and then it springs over the fence into the orchard. I call Mom to the window to watch with me, and a big fawn follows its mother. There's no fruit this year, Mom says. So we haven't seen many deer. The doe stops grazing and looks up, into the kitchen window. Does she see only her reflection, or does she see our faces? She stands a long time and we stand, too. At church this morning, Mom's pastor quoted Paul, that we see through a glass darkly and we can't know what heaven is like. But in these moments, when the last of the day's sun falls over the orchard like beaten gold, when the trees are green, like jasper, under an amethyst sky, I think I know where I am.


  1. Are you really writing a novel? That is what I really want to do, much more than poetry. When people asked me why I was in Iraq, I said, "gathering info for my Pulitzer Prize winning novel!"

  2. That's the only good reason I can imagine for going to Iraq!

    Are you still planning to join us to write this fall? We'll be meeting on Mondays at 12:00, not 100% sure of the room yet.

    Oh, and yes, I really am rewriting a novel. I hope to be finished in the next week or so. I think there's a little perfectionism/holding on happening here.


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