In Sunday School, my sister wanted to know if dogs go to heaven—
we were taught that animals do not have souls; therefore,
they do not have a place beyond the Pearly Gates,
but we’d seen All Dogs Go to Heaven
because we’d spent the night with my cousins
and they were allowed to watch blasphemous cartoons.
And my mom had recently crushed the skull of our Corgi-Beagle mix
while he rested his head beneath the tire of our Suburban
and my sister was the first on the scene.
“I think your dog will be waiting in heaven for you,” replied the rogue Sunday School teacher,
Ms. Kristi, all Red Delicious apple cheekbones and crystal blue eyes.
“Heaven will have what you hold dear.”
And like my sister, I have left a lot behind in the church—
the dichotomy of Heaven and Hell,
the arrogance of denying souls to other creatures,
the condemnation, the book of Revelations,
the gospel, and the guilt.
But before I departed that one room wooden church house,
I tucked under my arm Ms. Kristi's words—
they rest now somewhere next to the pressed lilies of the valley
and the valley of darkness; somewhere between Psalms and Proverbs.
“Heaven will have what you hold dear,” she said.
And somewhere a tan Beagle-eyed Corgi patiently awaits.