He smirked. “You’re an incorrect concept.” “I know. That’s why I’m being taken out of the rotation.”
“That’s not funny,” he said, looking at the street. Two girls passed on a bike, one riding sidesaddle over the back wheel.
“Come on,” I said. “That was a joke.” “The thought of you being removed from the rotation is not funny to me,” he said.
“Seriously, though: afterlife?” “No,” I said, and then revised. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t go so far as no. You?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice full of confidence. “Yes, absolutely.
Not like a heaven where you ride unicorns, play harps, and live in a mansion made of clouds.
But yes. I believe in Something with a capital S. Always have.” “Really?” I asked. I was surprised.
I’d always associated belief in heaven with, frankly, a kind of intellectual disengagement.
But Gus wasn’t dumb. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I believe in that line from An Imperial Affliction.
‘The risen sun too bright in her losing eyes.’ That’s God, I think, the rising sun,
and the light is too bright and her eyes are losing but they aren’t lost.
I don’t believe we return to haunt or comfort the living or anything, but I think something becomes of us.”
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