If I could paint you a picture of the table at the ice cream social. If I could paint the sundry tubs of melting ice cream in pastel whites and creams and browns and greens. If I could make you see the assorted serving spoons stacked on paper plates, globbed with the dripping remains of the last scoops scooped melting over one another. If I could lead your eyes down a sticky trail amidst the chocolate sauces and bowls of crumbled cookies, the peanut jars and boxes of sugar cones. If I could paint the faces of the neighborhood kids who came unaccompanied save for the kind attentions of the folks who gave them rides. If I could take a brush and arch the eyebrows just so, get the white just right for table-level eyes wide as they watch item after item appear from grocery bags. If I could get the elbow dimples just right of the girl with the bobbed hair and just past toddlerhood as she reaches into the Oreos, grabbing several in pudgy fists and then proceeds to a far corner of the room. And then paint a second painting for a diptych as she returns 5 minutes later, her mother playing a board game on the floor with other children. If I could paint the brown and white galaxy of swirls of a neglected paper bowl on the table, with malt powder like nebulae.
If I was master painter and could capture all of this, well then I might just be able to paint you one picture of heaven.
I shall leave to others the painting of scenes of hyperactive bedtimes and midnight tummy aches.