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I hope there's a heaven. I so want to picture Ray Bradbury there.

Actually, I believe Bradbury's death yesterday at age 91 was just a physical relocation. Spiritually, creatively, humanistically he's always been on a higher plane than the rest of us. Other writers, myself included, could only hope to occasionally tap into that stream. Bradbury lived there.

I'll never forget the image of young Ray on his roller skates, outside the big movie studios, bugging stars for their autographs. Or the protagonist of Something Wicked This Way Comes hearing the haunted calliope beckoning him at night. I wanted to live in a world created by Bradbury.

He wrote Fahrenheit 451 on rented typewriters: feeding coins in as needed. Someone said that they hated writing, but loved having written. Not Bradbury. The joy was in the creation.

So Ray Bradbury went to heaven yesterday. In a rocket ship. And I can't be sad because wonder was his nourishment, and the greatest adventure is now.