In Memory of Brian Wilson

“Hey,” the soul said (and Peter smiled). “Nice place.” “It is,” Peter agreed. “You made it to The Nice Place.” The soul laughed, pointing at him with both index fingers. “I see what you did. This place is radical.” The soul was taking it in, playing a casual game of trying to catch every sunbeam and stand in it. “You’ll make yourself crazy doing that,” Peter warned. “The whole place is sunlight; you can really just stand anywhere and it’ll find you.” “Woah,” the soul sighed in appreciation. “Shall we?” Peter asked. “Everybody’s ready to greet you.” And they shuffled up to the gates so the soul could peer through. There were more angels lining the path than you could comprehend and, although they were different and amazing in their variety, they were all beautiful … really gorgeous even … like, drop dead seriously fine … “California angels,” the soul whispered (deeply moved as they all turned and beamed in its direction), “are the cutest this side of the world.” It was rad (every single last bit of it) and the soul wiped a tear away moving forward.