Visiting My Adult Life

I heard a knock-knocking on the door. It was my childhood self, visiting my adult life. What had I achieved? it asked, and where had I been? Was pay equal yet? it wanted to know, is heaven still a dream? Heaven, it pondered, is it here on earth in butterfly wings and melting snow? It is spiralling in Dante’s nine circles, loved by Venus, or simply in the cry of a new-born? Heaven, it mused, is it above us in the air, exploding in stardust, travelling like light to an eye? Is it cradled between fingertips in a Vatican chapel, or is it felt in pats on the back, any small success? I looked at my childhood self, unsure of this placed called Heaven. Was it aflame inside a Jewish Menorah, or walking in Jannah, a Muslim-named paradise? Was it in beads of blood upon a crown of thorns, or swaddled with first born sons chosen as a sacrifice? So, with forefingers and thumbs I made a rectangle with both hands. “It’s in here”, I told my childhood self, “whatever you see in this space from where you stand.”