LETTER TO MY PAL IN HEAVEN

I’ve tried Sky-pe, but the clouds got in the way.

I’ve tried Twitter, but the bird lost my letter as well

as his feathers when he flew into a typhoon, and Ireland closed down for a day.

I thought your lines of communication were supposed to be good. 

No! No! Don’t put me on hold.

I’m making enquiries about me pal. Is she there?

What do you mean? She’s out weeding in the garden of Eden.

I thought Adam was your odd-job man, and where’s Eve?

I heard she picked the last apple from the tree. No better woman.

Well, tell Fran I called and no – I won’t be visiting anytime soon, 

but I wouldn’t mind a recce, you know, a bit of a gander, 

to see if it’s worth all the praying and slander.

Sure the best slander is from the ones who pray the most, 

or so they say.

I think I’ll take a trip down below, see if there’s anyone I know

Would ya look at your wan? She was always a goody two shoes. 

In church every five minutes praying for all of us lost souls.

What’s she doing down there? Tell me what’s she done? 

I promise I won’t tell a soul.

Phew! The sweat is running off me. It’s hot here in hell.

I know that fella. He lived up the road. Is it true he whacked his mother, sure she nagged him to death. 

He could do no right for doing wrong. That became his swansong.

I’m out of here before they get me to stay. 

The fella with horns is coming my way.

 

Hey, Fran, what took you so long? 

I’ve been chatting to an angel, although it was all one-way. 

Not one response from him or her. I’m spitting feathers.

Anyway, Fran, how’s it going? 

Are you enjoying being in heaven, 

or is it not all they say?

Tell me is it solar powered? The electricity bill must make himself glower. 

Have a word with and tell him to tap into the heat below. 

It’ll save him  a fortune, and less for us to put in the church basket,

 or for that matter the casket.

Can you do the crossword, Fran?

But I suppose there are no cross words, unless you’re in hell.

Pardon the pun.

What’s himself like?

You know – the big fella, Mr G? 

Does he have a beard like the pictures in the books?

Does he read the bible and ask him did he write it? 

It’s an awful lot of words and I’m only half-way through.

And what happened to his 12 pals? Are they up there? 

Sure didn’t one of them betray him. 

I bet he had a great lawyer and got in on a whim. 

They say it’s not what you do, but who you know. 

Is that true?

Are you bored, Fran?

But maybe you’re enjoying the peace and quiet, 

and having a rest from all of life’s strife.

Come on, pal, give us a clue.

Is it worth our while praying and going to mass, and confession too?

Will we be saved and turned into glorious beings, like Mrs Kelly down the road who thinks she’s the Queen Bee. 

Will we be happy and all glowing serene?

 

Are you happy?

Are you at peace?

Was that a roll of thunder? Yes, I know you are deceased, but I still expect an answer. How else will I know how many candles to light, 

or prayers to say to turn me into a celestial light.

Do you wear a halo and tell me, can you fly? Is that a load of claptrap 

to fool us into doing the right thing? The promise of being angels 

with fine feathery wings.

I won’t mention names just in case, you know. 

Tell me this and tell me no more, is the fella with the gammy leg there, 

and what about your Uncle Mo? 

Did your Auntie Jude manage to get in? I always wondered, because she never finished the novena or even the rosary, 

and always left the church halfway through.

Sure she shouldn’t get in unless there’s a halfway house 

for halfway believers.

 

What do you mean? I must have misheard. 

Did you say you don’t know anyone there?

What about Mary and Delia and Pat? They lived perfect lives, never swore or even begat. Pure as the driven snow. 

Maybe they’re on another floor.

 

Did I hear you right? Did you really say the only people in heaven 

are politicians? That must be a fright.

Hang on a sec and tell me this, how did you get in? 

Were you cookin’ the books for some shady geezer?

Ah sorry, Fran, you’re no Ebenezer.

What do you mean? You have a job? 

You’re counting the cash in the brown envelopes. 

You must be having me on. 

Surely himself is beyond bribery, besides us lighting candles 

and putting a few extra bob in the holy till. 

So tell me this – can I buy my way into heaven and how much is it?

Is there any time-share? If so, I’ll sell my place in Arizona.

Is the food any good and do you still make soup?

And if you say no I’ll wonder why. 

You can’t live on fresh air, sure you would die.

Now before I go, I want to tell you this.

You had a great wake, and everyone said you had never looked so well.

There was plenty of tea and sandwiches too, and the Baileys and Jamesons slid down a treat.

The neighbours queued up and down the road, 

just to say goodbye to you.

You got a great send-off, indeed as you should.

You deserved only the best, after all those candles you burned and prayers that you said. 

They opened the pearly gates so you could sneak in. I don ‘t mean that in a nasty way, but you did always vote for Fianna Gael.

I hope the big fella is looking after you. I can’t be there to see. 

Send me a whatsapp message if it’s not all as it seems.

Stop complaining that you’re cold, or he might send you down below. Flap your wings or wear a fleece. I’ll send you one, just keep the peace.

Be grateful for small mercies, as you always said to me. 

Sure you couldn’t ask for more in your new celestial home.

We’re all grand down here, just a worry or two.

No need for you to stress.

It’ll be the death of you.

 

As I said before – I won’t be seeing you anytime soon. All is well. 

I’m busy blogging my way to hell. 

Love from your bestie.

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