Lita A. KurthHeaven's Entryway
This is what I need. I knew the hallway to heaven would be ultra-blue, my favorite color, the blue of a sweater my algebra teacher wore when he fell in love. I looked for it in malls and asked for it at Christmas, but never found that royal, imperial, super-galactic blue.
I knew that heaven would be underwater and lead to a dim blue atmosphere with softly waving plants.
I knew the floor, the ceiling and the walls would be one piece and interconnect where squares are circled, and tunnels have flat sides; and light goes right through you like one big Jungian integration, stunningly clean on the inside and murky on the outside.
The chairs await us there, glowing like huge teal lightning bugs, like televisions in the dark, as if we will all be famous for way more than fifteen minutes. Just follow the light-lines. They're yellow and white, and made of balls. You exist in a lot of places at once, and most of them are yellow. Even the chairs are talking to their reflections, quietly, with no translation.
What I didn't know is that the red phone, my second favorite color, would be so out of reach, encased on a glass shelf, up against the blue. It isn't fair. I didn't know a fire extinguisher would lurk nearby, an uninvited blurry devil; that people would wear suits and pay no attention. I didn't know, but now I do, that heaven would be so empty.