He thinks Heaven is a person.
He thinks Jesus has a street address.
He says goodbye in a see-you-tomorrow kind of way, not a forever kind of way.
Who are we to say otherwise.
We try to coax memories until the words create the Celia who will live in his mind. We try to encourage stories, to help whatever persistent little echo keeps him believing she visits our world and he can visit hers. You can say goodbye to her whenever you, wherever you want, we tell him. Celia lives in Jesus' house and in your heart, we say. But really, we mostly listen. He seems much wiser about all this than we'll ever be.
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