Heaven

Tick, tock, tick, tock

Go the antique clocks that

Make up this house.

I open the door to

Your adoring, toothless grin

And the wide array of smells

Rising up to greet me.

Paprika and

Homemade chicken soup.

Yes, I’m fine.

Yes, school’s fine.

Yes, I’m hungry.

Yes.

Photographs.

European chocolates.

Old, faded wallpaper.

God had a hand

In making this place,

Didn’t He?

The man doesn’t fool me;

I can spot where He’s been.

A book under my arm.

John Green.

Lay down on the couch,

Head propped up on the

Goose feather pillows.

Close my eyes and

Slowly soak in the

Taste and feel of childhood.

Think to myself,

Why settle for Heaven

When there are places like this

To go to when

You die?

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