[In case you are joining our serial short story about grief a little late, here is a link to the beginning.]
“Do you see all those stars,” the little girl asked? “There are more of them in heaven than sand on the beach. Know how I know?”
I nodded that I didn’t and her dad looked our way in interest (for he too had been silent all along).
The little girl continued: “God told Abraham,
“You’ll have more kids than the sand on the beach or the stars in the sky.” [Gen.22:17]
“Well, that was a long time ago and there’s lots more stars in heaven now.”
I smiled and nodded confirmation of the little girl’s encouragement.
I was thinking about the lifeless fluid-filled corpse in the casket. It wasn’t very encouraging. The scene was as frightening to me, truth-be-told, as the wax-carved bodies at Ripley’s.
Another image quickly came to mind. If zombies could be real as dancers in a music video, then the next room would be as fearsome as death.
I glanced ever-so-briefly toward the adjacent doors, through which I had fled into this vestibule.
As I looked back to the girl and her picture I asked, “Why is that star so much brighter?”
(I had not considered the impact of her matter-of-fact answer.)
“THAT one’s my Mommy.”
