And I asked nothing more of God, if a paradise exists, than to be able, there, to knock on that wall with the three little raps which my grandmother would recognise among a thousand, and to which she would give those answering knock which meant: "Don't fuss, little mouse, I know you're impatient, but I'm just coming," and that he would let me stay with her throughout eternity, which would not be too long for the two of us.
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 790
One of the most touching moments so far in Remembrance of Things Past was Proust's earlier reflection of how when he was much younger he would tap on the wall to signal his grandmother. He ends this heartbreaking dream sequence, featuring loss, loneliness and regret, with this beautiful redemptive prayer. I've been talking for sometime about having my son convey my ashes to the Wadi Rum in Jordan for dispersal, with the romantic idea that I'll join the jinn in haunting the desert. However, if I spent eternity in a childlike state of innocence and wonder, drinking Bosco with my grandmother Maude in her little kitchen in Rising Sun and/or "helping" my grandmother Alice run her old country store (which mainly consisted of me depleting her candy supply from that old cracked glass display case) I can't imagine that God could offer me much more.
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