A Letter to Heaven
I’m not one much for death. I watched my mom die twice. Death crept up on one of my best friends in life, Shawn Seaman, from behind and stole him away from his three children at age 50. Satan did the same thing to his mother in her early forties. The problem with death is it has a perfect record.
Alie Bishop was 80 when I met her. She looked like she was in her sixties. A picture of health, vibrance, fun and wit. She had this seductive smile. Her eyes gleamed with the same pattern. Quite frankly, Alie was sexy.
Alie and I just blended with chemistry from the get go.
Shortly after I realized Alie had become one of my better friends, she was diagnosed with Diffuse Large B-cell Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. However, you could never tell by her attitude. Not once did I hear her complain through grueling treatments, her hair falling out, or as she began to show signs of escalated aging. No, the smile was still gleaming and the laughter was still flowing along with our talks and bottles of J Lohr Chardonnay shared among friends at the Fisherman’s Restaurant.
Of course, Alie beat death. Her hair grew back beautifully and she was spry again. The doctors said it was an absolute miracle there were no signs of the disease… Poof! Gone! The problem with death is it has a perfect record.
A spitfire of a woman. I’m extremely confident my mother Wanda and Alie are pretty good friends up in heaven right now. Wanda was the ultimate spitfire. Wanda is the one still asking questions up there. And Thomas is telling Alie he likes Wanda’s attitude. Alie, when we meet on the corner of Silver and Gold Street, bring Wanda with you.
My dear friend, we leave you with these three awesome poems my friend Laura Miller, author of A Book of Poems, offered just for you.
There, among the ancient trees,
brilliant in the flash of setting suns,
illuminated by rising moons,
the story of our beautiful Alie
scrolls endlessly by.
Memories gently wind through
the landscape of our lives,
sweetening each trial, every joy
as our stories continue to merge,
as our hearts forever entwine.
– laura miller
In the silent forests,
upon the beckoning slopes,
in bracing winds, under scorching suns,
we test muscles and labor lungs
to rise to that place we dare long for
from the valley floor.
The ecstasy is the same, climbing or dreaming,
for it is not the determined body that travels
but the intrepid soul.
– laura miller
In the cool of the night,
we will meet in dreams,
in those narrowest of spaces
where earth dissolves into sea.
When yearning rises
to the heavens,
we will find each other.
We will meet forever,
each time as the first time,
in those moments
suspended in infinity.
– laura miller