A sleeping body rested between us, a head lie on her shoulder as she observed the green landscape blurring by.
“I would always ask when I would get wings when I got to heaven.”
And like any self-respecting Sunday school teacher faced with a silly, yet Important question, it was usually squashed with an answer that would only leave consternation and worry on a 4-year old’s face. No, of course not. And Fido isn’t making to heaven either. Sorry. But there will be trumpets and singing and streets paved with gold and worship and everyone you knew who died and died before you and no pain and no sickness and and and...
…and who cares?
I don’t want to be part of any religion that doesn’t give me fucking wings.
