On the other side, there is a place where the dead bring flowers to the living—a sun-bathed valley lined with rows and rows of shiny tombless headstones with our names carved in them.
As the church bells begin to toll, by force of habit, the dead put on their Sunday best and march toward the valley under the blue sky of their unchanging land.
They stop before the headstones and bend down to lay a little bunch of flowers on them.
By way of salute, they run their fingers over the name of the husband or the wife, the father or the mother, the son or the daughter,
or the grandchild they didn't get to know while still among the living. They think about us and talk to us and miss us just like we miss them, and they pray for us.
Then, after a while, they leave.
On this side, for no good reason, a soothing warmth pours out of our heart and seeps through our body.