Heaven is for the Birds

Do buildings go to heaven?
I hear a young boy ask his mother
as the doctor’s office plays news coverage
of the condo collapse in Miami.
I smirk picturing a cirrostratus sunset,
glowing by the light of ten thousand
halos, illuminating the faint outlines
of fallen buildings in the distance.
I glance to the boy’s mother, who says
no, buildings don’t go to heaven,
and it reminds me of a time,
during the children’s moment in church,
when a god-fearing woman told a bereft
eight-year-old that her beloved bird would not
be waiting for her in the end because
animals don’t go to heaven. The look
on her face matched the fear in this young
boy’s eyes, watching one floor give way
to the next like a vertical domino set.
When I was his age, I, too, watched in terror
as twin skyscrapers crumpled, dust to dust,
along the skyline. Nothing prepares a child
for trauma—nothing prepares an adult for trauma
either, I suppose, yet here we both are
in a sky-blue painted room, falsely calming us
as we wait to hear our diagnoses.
I lean over to the boy,
whisper to him like a lullaby
heaven is for the birds and the buildings
and every sunrise and sunset because
there’s only room in here for so much grief.