Why I Choose to Believe in Heaven, Despite the Odds

All rights © Danist Soh

Maybe Heaven smells like cinnamon and secondhand books. Or chiles en nogada. Or tikka masala. I don’t know. But I do know there is no money, there are no mosquitos, and maybe when Mary Oliver isn’t writing she’s picking blueberries with Pablo Neruda. Jaime Sabines is smoking in a hammock. Jesus is eating mangos with Mohammed and playing games of chess neither of them wants to win. Every game ends in a…

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