• “You must stop crying, my love. We have to get over this,” Mark insisted.

    “But I can’t just forget my only son!” I hollered, tears streaming down my cheeks.

    He took my hand, “Josephine, I am not asking you to forget Maxwell. What I am asking for is to calm down. Let’s talk this over, hmm?” he whispered.

    I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my turtleneck. Maxwell would be a difficult subject to talk about. Ever since the hit-and-run last year, I could not overcome the lump in my throat that leaves me speechless when I hear his name. Maxwell is—was—my only son, a little boy of six who always carried a light that seemed to brighten even the darkest corners of the Earth.

    “I’ll start. Do you remember”—he chuckled—“when dear little Maxwell gave you a bouquet of flowers because he thought they would make honey? ‘They smelled sweet enough’ he had said,” Mark giggled.

    Although tears still trickled down my cheeks, I smiled. “That’s my baby. Always thinking of his parents,” I boasted, “And do you remember the time that Maxwell tried to make lemonade?” I questioned, laughing.

    “Ah, yes, dear. You told me to buy a cup, and then drink it! Oh how terrible it was!” he giggled.

    Pretty soon we were both laughing, thinking about Maxwell and how silly he was. Perhaps that was the problem—perhaps thinking about him made things worse. He was always so sincere and kindly. I sunk into sadness once again.

    “Josie? Are you feeling alright? You look unwell…” Mark questioned, feeling my forehead. “No, not a fever. Josie?”

    “I’m just depressed, Mark. I need Maxwell in my life again to fill in the hole in my heart. He used to bring light into the darkness and used to make the world a happy place,” I sighed. My cheeks began to dampen once again.

    “Oh, no honey, don’t cry,” he pleaded, attempting to dry my tears. Abruptly, he swung his arms around me in a bear hug, “Whatever you do,” he whimpered, “don’t cry!” he shrieked. I could feel his tears on my shoulder as he sobbed; mumbling on and on saying he missed Maxwell and it was his fault he died.

    Suddenly, a light from above shined from the ceiling of our living room, causing the room to be a blinding white. Feet appeared from the roof, then a torso, and then a body. Soon, Maxwell was floating in our living room.

    My mouth dropped open, and then, tears streaming down my face, I jumped up from the couch to welcome him home. But when I tried to hug him, my arms went through him, as if he was air.

    “Hello mother. I’m a little birdie now. See?” He announced, turning around to show off his wings.

    “My baby’s an angel,” I sobbed happily, “Look Mark! Maxwell’s home!” I said, turning to look at Mark. He, too, was in shock. However, when I pivoted to look at my baby again, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but a small envelope. It read:

    “Dear Mommy and Daddy,
    I am in a place where some other little birdies say is called ‘heaven’. I don’t know what they mean, but it is really fun. There are other kids my age who like to play tag with me. I’m not sure when I am coming home, because when I asked a lady she just looked at the person next to her and then back to me and said ‘Sweetheart, this is your home now.’ What do they mean? I miss you a lot.
    Hugs and Kisses,
    Maxwell”