When I moved into the little shed, in the back of your sumptuous estate with the gigantic Buddha to worship or merely aspire to emulate I had read Hesse, but promptly threw away the book to meditate before Mary in the quiet little chapel. Yes, every single thing seemed minuscule in that early time after my mother went to Heaven. There is an actual Heaven. It is someplace new, always new, and never decaying like us. This place, so bright and lit up like a fireworks display with all golden lights, but with singing instead of bangs and thunder waits for us who have lived on top of toadstools and beneath bridges. It will have new castles for each of us, like Lazarus. But that was just some story to tell your child.