Art in Heaven

Glad to be Alive

And here, with obviously so much more to tell, Art closes his eyes and brings our book of the dead, will-we nill-we, to a conclusion.

I know there’s more light ahead. After all, Pun Qwats did more than raise Glory. He’s the same sweet guardian angel who watched over us when we were children, and who to this day is my mentor. He swings with words the way his namesake in the The Good Book swung with the horn. From time to time, I’ve had bits and pieces of the story of his early life from him, but never the whole thing, from the beginning.

“I say, Artie boy, don’t stop now! I knew from the start that the Nastis and the Kimrakazis would lose the war, that the good guys would win. If the enemy stayed in us, you and I wouldn’t have been here. But I want to know all about Pun Qwats. How exactly did our grandmother meet him? And why did he agree to change places with her and become Old Glory’s slave?”

“In reality, life goes on. You don’t find everything out. You die. That is the end of any genuine life. Why should it not be true of truthful books? Morning, look, the embers in the fireplace are cold, and out the window, it’s so late it’s early.”

I go to the glass. The night has passed, and the storm with it. Rows of white fluff are streaming overhead, running in front of a chill northwest wind that is clearing the air. The incoming winter has no sting in the wake of Art in Heaven.

“Morning,” he says, coming up behind me, “the angel’s tale is better saved for another time.” He touches me with his brilliant hand, and his light runs through me. “If I want to stick to my policy of happy endings, this is a good place to rest. Sarah’s prayers are answered. Gloria has a man around the house she can count on. Not Corn Dog exactly, but Pun Qwats, a man, as we well know, every bit as singular as the buck.”

In Art we trust. And Pun Qwats, too. He never left us wanting for a grandfather, a grandmother, a mother or a father. He spoiled us, schooled us, and counseled us even though he had his hands full taking care of our mother too. “Yes, brother, it’s a long spin for one sitting. It will take me a year to sort out what I’ve heard already tonight. Go now, I won’t hold you. But do promise me you’ll be back.”

“You have my word, Morning, I will.”

When the first ray of sunlight enters the room, Art slips into it, disappears and makes himself omnipresent in one pass.

Art is gone, back to being everywhere, shining. And I am left alone, in one spot, trapped among the living for the time being, and happy for it. With Art faded into the All and the fire out, I feel the chill in the house. As if on cue, at that moment, the power comes back. The lamps go on and the clocks start ticking again. I go into the hall, push up the thermostat, and hear the old oil burner in the basement come clanking into operation. I fix myself a cup of tea in the kitchen and, while I wait for the water heater to warm my bath, I sit at the table, drink tea, and write down all I saw while I still remember it. I bring it upstairs to read over as I draw a hot bath. But I quickly put it aside, welcoming the steam from the running water and the whoosh of warm air from the heat vents on me as I undress. In the water, I lie back, breathe deeply, and see Art in Heaven brightening my mind and dissolving the hold the first person singular has on my flesh.

Now, sleepy, feeling the full effects of being up all night, and the warm bath, I go to my room, to bed, sliding between the covers, engrossed in idle nonsense dreams, glad to be alive, my head achatter with bright days ahead.