Dear Heaven, Are You Real?

Dear Heaven,

-

Do you really exist?

Is it you that I see when I look skyward,

or just a collection of huge balls of mineral and gas.

What is up there, hiding behind those clouds, and those far away planets?

Is there truly a place of peace,

where passed relatives and friends live,

forever smiling, watching over me,

as I look at the sky on this starry night and wonder

if they really know how much I miss them?

When I say a prayer at night, does anyone hear me,

or am I just whispering to the wind?

Is there a place where my dream is real, where my faith can be restored,

or nothing more than those gaseous balls that I’d never reach in a thousand lifetimes?

There was a time when your existence was never in doubt to me.

In my younger catholic school years,

and weekly Sunday church visits,

when Christmas meant more than just presents and family feasts.

Those weekly Sunday visits seem to have been thrown by the wayside,

left behind, along with the broken fragments of my faith,

on the winding roadway of life and so-called maturity.

Maybe I’ve gotten cynical in my advancing age.

Or maybe I’ve grown so tired of fake news that I’m now in need of indisputable proof to believe in anything.

Even my faith in myself and all that I am has been chipped away in tiny bits and pieces,

lost along that roadway.

But if those bits and pieces of me, those fragments of whatever’s left of my soul should happen to find the faith I lost along the way,

then maybe, once again I can look to the sky,

and see that the loved ones gone before me are truly in a better place and will be there to greet me when my turn finally comes.

Otherwise, what’s the point of even looking up?

If those that have gone, those loved ones with whom I shared my soul and my most treasured memories have no memories or souls of their own, how can I believe that I do?

If all that’s left in the end are the dusty fragments of who I once was, can I assume the same for who I’ve always been?

Did my dad ever really hold me on his knee and sing that old country song?

Did my grandmother ever bake that raisin bread that I can still taste to this moment?

Did my friend and I ever really see those concerts and was it true that she always called me Mag?

Did I ever even meet her at all?

If there’s no point in looking up for answers, is there also no point in looking inward for understanding?

If it’s all just blind faith that sees me end in nothingness, how can I be sure that I was ever something to begin with?

Tell me, Heaven, will any of it ever make sense?

-

With hope and what’s left of my faith,

C