“Ami, no one will be caring about anybody,” Mumma said, “not until everyone has made it to the other side, to heaven.” “How will we know what our faces in heaven will be, how will we reunite if everyone who has ever existed is there?” He had begun to cry. He did not want this life to end. He did not care for houses made of rubies or rivers of honey, not if the sound of the shell separated him from them. “We will find you,” Baba had said, “don’t worry about that. Just worry about your deeds. I could find you anywhere.”
