Is it what we make of it?
Heaven is a goal, a prize. Even angels fall.
Sometimes men use heaven in their pick-up lines and most women roll their eyes.
When praying, people roll their heads downward and when heaven is cursed, people raise up their fists in fury.
Heaven is having a job and not having a job.
Heaven is a song. No one knows the notes or how to play it, no one knows where it starts or ends.
Heaven is not ripping off a band-aid, maybe it’s the wound underneath.
My pupils shrink in the sun and I squint my eyes to see your face. You smile and heaven feels something like my eyes dilating again.
Heaven is getting enough sleep but is it a dream?
We feel heaven when love is found, when making love.
Heaven is not what keeps us alive, we have hell for that.
Heaven is a pumpkin no one picks so it shrivels and rots on the vine. It becomes a part of the ground it was born from.
Can there be heaven on Earth?
Maybe heaven isn’t our happiest moment but more like a moment we’re most ourselves.
When I’m naked in front of a mirror with a tampon string hanging between my legs, holding my tender breasts, I imagine the day a baby will grow in me. I imagine seeing heaven in his or her eyes the first time light hits them.
I don’t want to end with a cliché but maybe that’s what heaven is.