The clouds look as though layered: three images deep of white and grey, some black edges. The sky, its base, is translucent blue. Distant rumblings and flashes of light hint of heaven coming down for a better look.
The garden soil is rich with earthworms, and I kneel in thyme, a soft bed for aged knees, pulling weeds. Grass, the killer, must be unearthed with a sharp spade, the tip of my knife to terminate. The air grows heavy and warm, and I remove my jacket, wipe sweat from my brow.
A man watches from across the way. He stands still, a long black coat covers black trousers and shoes; a wide-brimmed black hat shields his eyes. I look up and cannot see his eyes. There is an aura of light, as though he’s in a spotlight, around him. I continue my work moving down the newly edged front of the garden.
As I look up, my thoughts take me to the heaven I see in the parting of the clouds. I imagine that the man is in front of me, his hand extended. I take it and together we soar far from the earth into the gardens of heaven. There are mansions and houses of humble origins. I choose the one by the river, a filigree gate opening as I walk towards it. The house is charming, compact and vintage, I believe. The man leaves me, and I explore the rooms: brick, floor-to-ceiling fireplaces in each of the rooms, random-width wood floors, tiny second-floor bedrooms with window seats that overlook the river. I lay down and pull up the covers, lulled by the sounds of water hitting rocks.
I awake with a start. Rain has begun to fall and the distant rumbling of thunder is above me. I leave my jacket, my hoe and knife and run for cover. Heaven will not collect me today.
Worthy Witness 
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