People go to God

People die, go to God.
Their things are taken to the dump,
and the house stands as before
You come, everything here is different,
the past will not return.

But you remember everything
as it was before.
Time has no power over your memory
Smells, sounds on holidays and weekdays
are often remembered.

You hear a voice familiar to the point of pain.
"Mommy! Where are you?"
Only silence in response.
Only the whisper of the wind

Memory! Why do you keep every little thing?
What will she say in response?
God made me like this