Epistles to Heaven from a Disgruntled Daughter

Dear Daddy,

I’m not sure how this Heaven App works, or if it does, but the guy said it transforms my words and their sentiments into anti-particles that penetrate the life-death barrier. Meaning that on some level you, or maybe your spirit, will receive them some kinda way I didn’t fully grok, and that you will be able to communicate back to me. 

So before I go bearing my soul, let me hear from you. Does this mashugina gizmo really work?  

Love,

Your curious but somewhat estranged daughter,

Myrna

***@_++%%%!!!!xxxx~~~&&&****Oops, I musta done something wrong. Let me try again.

Dearest Myrna,

That’s better. Phew!  

It’s been so long since that day in ‘83 when my body gave out, you’ll have to forgive me for being all thumbs with this App thing. And no, I don’t have real thumbs anymore. Left all that behind. I’m pure consciousness now—or so I’m told. It’s a freedom like no other.  

But, I digress. And, to make a longish story shorter, yes, it seems to be working well enough. I got your message. And need I say, I was thrilled to do so. Not just for the technology but that you would reach out to your pathetic old pop after the hell I put you through warms the cockles of my heart. Even though I no longer have a real heart. I like to think I have a soul-heart.  

Anyway, I do hope you write—or whatever the correct verb is for connecting–again. Looking forward to it!

Hugs,

Your loving Papa

Dear Pathetic Old Pop

Your words, not mine, but if the metaphorical shoe fits…

Anyway, I guess this thing does work. Or else someone’s got a great scam going. I’m going to trust it for now, cause they got the ‘83 correct. But then again, that info’s probably online.  

So before I bare my soul, let me ask a few questions only you would know. Consider them security questions. Which is what we do nowadays on what’s called the internet. Which you would have had a ball with, by the way.

Anyway, here goes:

What was my stuffie rabbit’s name?

Where did we live in Texas, and I do mean street address?

And what’s Mommy’s middle name? 

Ciao for now,

Myrna

Ahoy, Myrna!

Those are way too easy!   

Bun Bun Bunny

102 Nebraska St. Dyess AFB, Abilene, Texas 79607

Faye

Is that enough? Are you convinced it’s me yet?

Come to think of it, how do I know you are you? 

Let me ask you a few:

Name three of my hobbies, my dad’s business, and my first and last professions.  

Hopefully yours,

Daddy

Dear Daddy,

Those are also way too easy!

Hobbies: Hot rods, model airplanes, and putting together Heath Kits to make your own Hi-Fi equipment. Lo, do I remember the smell of your soldering iron and the visage of you set up at a cardboard table in the living room at 102 Nebraska, putting together your Heath Kits.

And later the smell of the epoxy glue that transformed pieces of plastic into F-104 Starfighters and the like. One of them hung over our bunk bed until we broke it during one of our pillow fights.  

The hot rods were before my time. But we certainly heard about them ad nauseum and even saw a few pics.

Your dad’s business was a jewelry store he named after you. Marvin’s Jewelers in South Bend, Indiana. We stayed in the Morningstar Hotel when we visited, though I doubt it’s still there. 

Your first and last profession–photography. You had a portrait studio before I was born, but took some lovely ones of Mommy we still have. And your last was forensic photography. You would have loved CSI—Crime Scene Investigation.  Right up your alley. 

Too bad you mis-used the camera on us. 

Oops, I’m getting ahead of myself. But assuming I got these right, and I know I did, can we get down to brass tacks? 

Best,

Myrna

Dear Myrna,

Three out of three, for a perfect score of 100%! 

So fire away, so to speak. And I promise to answer as truthfully as I can. All I ask is some compassion for your old man of a different era. 

Know that I really did and do love you.

Blessings,

Marvin

Dear Marvin,

Okay, you are you and I am me.  

Now that that’s settled, here’s the deal:

Yes, you provided for us, and thanks for that.

But did you have to drink yourself to death? You were told by many doctors to stop drinking and smoking. Yet you kept on.  

But that’s your choice. I know that.  

What wasn’t my choice was all the sexual remarks, the oogling, the groping, the dirty pictures, the way you practically drooled when you looked at us. No wonder I put on so much excess weight as a teenager. I was trying to pad myself from you.  

Even more demeaning was discounting my ideas and yelling at me for having differing views. Back then it was a free country. Now I’m not so sure. I didn’t create the peace movement during the Vietnam War. I was a teenager and not that powerful. But as soon as I got to college, out of your disapproving glare, I sure as heck joined it. 

I even got arrested at that ROTC sit-in, which you said proves I don’t love you. But I could just as easily have said, dissing my ideas proves you don’t love me.  

You have no idea what all the above did to my sense of self and my sexuality. Suffice it to say, it took getting into recovery to learn how to be authentically me and stand up for myself. Something I shouldn’t have had to be in my forties to finally do. No thanks to you.

Still hurting, but not as much,

Myrna

Dearest Myrna,

Wow. I had no idea.

Well, I take that back. As pure consciousness, I did pick up on a few vibratory waves—some of pain, some of healing. But not the specifics. Which are probably none of my damn business.  

Not to excuse, but perhaps to explain, I was an addict. I died one, as well. So yes, drinking and smoking were what I did. And yes, I got really good at it. Too good, obviously, because my disease—I think that’s what they call it nowadays—blinded me to the impact I had on you girls.  

That sounds like a cop-out I know. But the times were a-changin’ as that song I detested says, only I didn’t change with them. My disease kept me stuck in a 1950s mind. Women existed to serve and to please. Period.

If I acknowledged how antiquated that thinking was, if I even could have, that would have made me someone I couldn’t live with. Maybe that shame added to my drinking, I don’t know. 

If having that triple bypass didn’t get me to stop, and you begging me to stop killing myself didn’t get me to stop, do you think anything could have?  

All I can say now is, I am sorry. So very sorry.  

I know that’s not enough, but there it is. Take it or leave it And if you can’t take it, I have only myself—or my former self–to blame. So be it. 

Hoping you will,

Your loving Daddy

Dear Daddy,

No. It’s not enough.  

But then again, you died before most of the rest of us got into recovery. Mommy’s got twenty-plus years in AA. I forgot to mention after you died, she started drinking and it got pretty heavy. We did an intervention, Judy and I. I joined Al-Anon, and she joined AA, after a week-long hospitalized detox. But still, we almost lost her.  

So even though it feels solicited and shallow, I accept your apology. You’re not really in a position to make situational or living amends, and Mommy’s gone now.  

I would like to know if you’ve been able to connect with her or how that works. I’ve been curious. But I will tell you that when she was in that liminal space right before she died, it wasn’t you she ‘saw’ on the other side. It was her sister, Lisa. And Uncle Benny, FYI. 

And if that hurts, it was meant to. 

That’s all. I think I’m done now.

~Myrna

Dearest Darling Daughter,

If you’re willing to receive this, and I hope you are, yes, Mommy’s here. Or the expression of pure consciousness that she was and still is. So while the logistics of how it all works is not for me to divulge, this aspect of us continues. I won’t say lives because it’s not exactly like an afterlife in the sense of what we think of as a life.

But it is a sense of knowingness that can connect and express and not just through this app thing. But we do connect with each other in consciousness. So we’re all here, zipping around the stratosphere, connecting and reconnecting, in our current forms.

The bad thing–or maybe it’s good— those distinctions don’t mean much here–is that we can’t hug each other. 

So instead let me send what I believe you would call a virtual hug down– even though that concept doesn’t make sense here either–to you and your sister. 

Wishing you both all the best, and may it be a long time before you join us. 

Hugs,

Daddy

PS. I understand I have three grandchildren and seven great-grandkids. I sense their energy, but it pains me that I never got to hold them.

And P.P.S. Just so you know, the view from here is spectacular!

Dear Speck of Consciousness formerly known as Daddy,

Thanks for what you were able to explain. That helps and is a comfort somehow. Glad your view is spectacular. 

Mine sucks.

And for the record, it’s a blessing you never got to meet your grandchildren or great-grands either. Who knows what you might have done–to the girls, anyway. I take comfort in knowing that pains you so thanks for sharing that.

And yes, I hope it’s a long, long, long time until I join you. And even when I do, don’t be surprised if I’m not thrilled to connect.  

Give Mommy, Aunt Lisa, and Uncle Benny hugs and kisses from me. 

That’s all. I’m really done now. 

~Myrna