May 27, 1986 Dear Alan: Here I am flying home to Denver. It's May 27, 1986. How can that be? How can it be two years since I last visited my family in Memphis? Where did the days, months and yes—even years—go? It just doesn't seem possible. Yet it is. Last year grows fainter in my mind and the pain is not so strong. I just know that it happened. It was real and you are gone. Yes, Alan, you're somewhere else. Where—I don't know. But it must be a place where you appreciate life, where you can truly see and hear and feel and love. It's too bad we have trouble with those things here on earth. Yet I feel thankful for this earth. As I look out the window of this airplane all I see are endless rows of white billowy clouds. It is beautiful. And it is alluring. And, it's true that we imagine heaven to be like this. Yet, somehow I don't think so any more. Somehow I think that heaven must be more like our earth—full of color and beauty of all types—not just one. I think that the only difference between heaven and earth is in ourselves. After we reach heaven we become the person God created us to be. We appreciate life and we are able to see, hear, feel and love. Alan, I know that you have found that place and I know that you are your perfect self. And, Alan, I know that you are helping me write this letter. Here I am flying home to Denver, and when I land it will be a new day.
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Your mother,