Heaven

Since the funeral Michael has been asking questions about Heaven. When I was there the other day, he and I were laying on their deck playing with leaves and a gooey substance he'd just got at the store.
"Oma, are you old?"
"I'm getting that way, Michael. Do I look old?"
"Yeah, your cheeks."
"You mean the wrinkles."
"Yeah."
Pause
"Oma, when you go to heaven, will you meet me there?"
"Yes, Michael, I will."