Questioning

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There is no questioning over heaven when I talk with my mom, 96, dementia bad now. There is no casual doubting or stray musing about the hereafter when she asks where everyone has gone. "Where are they? My family. My sister Rebecca. We were holding hands when they pulled us apart, she went to another line. We waved to each other. My parents, everyone, where are they now?"

I answer my mom with certainty, like I'm really informed. "They're all in heaven, mom, with father, all together, they're ok. Some day, they will come for you. You will see them all again." I tell her all this calmly, almost matter-of-factly, like I know for sure.

There is no questioning when answers are unknown anyway, no doubting when it serves no good purpose, like hope or peace of mind. No time for intellectual speculating when the eternal is in the room, like beams of light thru the curtains mom made.
 

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