There are no mirrors in heaven. I’m certain of this. I am also sure that gold is virtually worthless, since they pave the streets with the stuff. Asphalt? That might be pretty dear. Ex-spouses, loud neighbors, and calculus professors will be absent, no matter how virtuous they have been. They will inhabit a separate paradise, as they have no desire to see you, either. Perhaps the afterlife is an infinite stream of high-rise buildings, each hosting a score of loft parties attended by those members of the elect who can stand one another. The breadsticks on the buffet are truly endless and the bar never, ever runs out of wine.
In heaven, there is a lack of affect. No one is falsely glad for anyone else, and no one applauds if the orchestra doesn’t move them. Facebook pages are fairly uniform: “The sun shone today when I wanted it to do so. Other times I went in. Likewise, the temperature stays at an optimum point for each inhabitant, so no one has to pretend to be warm or cool in an inhospitable room. They simply are comfortable. Contentedness courses through them like the current of an immense ocean and whatever their neighbor is doing—playing the harmonica or fishing with dynamite—is all right with them.
Picture yourself on a boat on a river. No, wait, that’s plagiarism. Picture yourself on an endless down a pacific stream. Summer, spring, winter. It does not matter. You are in a better place, as they said at your funeral. Don’t worry about what lit the fuse, what wound your flower. You are a rocket, an electric eye socket, you have died and are now reborn.
Welcome to bliss.