Dear God,

You are supposed to live in the sky but I think you should live on the ground with us. Sometimes it's not so bad here. Mom's making tacos and it smells like rain and frying meat. I came in and brought mud all over the inside of the house and Mom said "Hell hell hell, Francis Rose" but she doesn't want anything to go to hell. She doesn't want anything to leave. She wants you on the ground here. There are rotting leaves in the gutter and the taste gets into the water. It makes it seem like it's a dying world. The water in fall tastes like wet dead leaves. Anyway, you are not on the ground and graves yawn so we are all frying meat. I used to think about that at night and pee all over my bed. I used to cry because I didn't want to sleep forever, wet with pee. Dad used to say, "shh honey, you can go to sleep. You'll wake up--I promise." And now in my dreams you say "shh honey, you can go to sleep. You'll always wake up. I promise. I promise you always wake up somewhere."

Love,
F. Rose