|Two Angels with Nothing to Say to Each Other|
My next-door neighbor was out of town, and when she returned I got to regale her with the story of the tree, and she said it was to be expected with the ground so sodden and all, and I agreed. When my wife called (she was also out of town) I told her about the tree, and she also brought up the sodden-soil theory. So between the neighbor with the ruined mailbox, the next-door neighbor, and my wife, I got three harmless and pleasant conversations out of one tree.
If there is such a place as heaven, which seems pretty unlikely, I wonder how any of us would manage to endure it. We're so fond of our little disasters, provided they don't do anything more serious than crushing the odd mailbox or depriving us of power a few hours. Heaven, think of it, unending perfection, complete unbroken perfection: never would the clouds get so sodden that trees would knock down power lines and short out all the halos.
What would we talk about?