Well, I’m here — who have expected that I would have made it to Heaven?  Here I am, though. And it’s just as it’s been described. Clouds, pink light, music from an unseen source. And yes, angels. All with two eyes, all with two wings, white gowns, plucky but serene demeanor.

Welcome to Heaven, they say without speaking directly. Flashing Morse code off their haloes. Communicating without words, communicating nonetheless clearly and directly. Welcome to Paradise.

As time goes on, I notice I’m not becoming an angel; the angels I’m seeing seem to have changed a bit — still with the wings, still the gown, still the demeanor but less serene, more morose.  In fact, they’re often stock still and weeping, or twitching and wailing. The music of Heaven goes on with an undertone of that.

I’m no angel.  Heaven’s full of people-shades who thought it would be joyous fun and they’re finding out there’s a death-sameness to it that gets to you after a while.  

As it is, I’m holding it off. No desire to succumb to this numbing joy. Holding it off with a Jerry Jeff Walker song. “If I could just get off of this L.A. freeway without gettin’ killed or caught…” The sad wings of sad angels, beating guitar time as I hum along.