That’s how Arman says it, “preserve their hereafter,” let them be reunited with their babas and mamabazorgs and yes, their prophets, the prophets in whom I can only muster for myself scattered belief, like a light flicking on and off in a room I can see their shapes sometimes but never with any depth, never with anything like depth, or maybe it’s the other way around where I can see their depth but can’t quite make out the shape of them, the prophets, the why or how or even the what of the whole thing.
