In My Father’s House Are Many Mansions

In my other world, I do taxes. I have a minister client who cracks me up. We’ve spent a lot of time arguing about the ark. I like the whole ark thing due to the animals. Sorry, people, you’re out of here, but the animals are worth saving. But, really, everyone knows all the animals would eat each other at some point. He has an answer for this and everything else. You gotta admire someone who is so confident in their beliefs. Yep. Me? Well, I sorta waiver from one day to the next. The cool thing is, this guy is a huge wine drinker so you get to sample all these different wines while you argue. Probably, if it weren’t for the wine, I would just nod and smile, but I talk a lot more when I drink. Once, I went to this party where you answered all these personality questions sober and then again after a few drinks. It was supposed to test whether you changed personalities when you drank. I totally did but, oddly, most people did not. I liked my drinking self better. But, I digress. Yesterday, sitting outside, six feet apart with masks going up and down in order to drink, we talked about the fact that he wanted to donate his body to science. I pointed out that it seemed to me if your body was your temple, carving it up might be frowned upon. Besides, how are people supposed to come visit you at your grave? He looked at me for awhile, as if debating how to break the bad news, and said, “Honey, when people visit you at your grave, you aren’t really there.” I’m not so sure about that. I like to think I can visit graves and people see me and hear me and send signs and stuff. I announced just that and he shook his head no. Then he launched into some long story about his nephew lying about a will, saying he owned a house and cheating the rest of the family out of their inheritance. He died last week and this all came to light. “Honey,” he asked, “can you imagine trading heaven for a house?” No. No, I can’t.