When my sister Dee died last October, we had to tell my then-four-year-old granddaughter. Dee and Miss America were very close. After shedding many tears, Miss America did a lot of deep thinking, like so many of us, trying to make sense of things like car accidents and death. A couple months later, this was our conversation:
“Heaven’s a bad place.” So says Miss America as we cuddle on the sofa watching Shrek2.
“What?” I say. “Heaven’s a good place.”
Miss America shakes her head and looks up at me with big brown eyes that reveal how much she’s learned of life and death lately.
“I don’t want to go there,” she says firmly.
“Well, you don’t have to go there now.”
“Only people gets dead there.”
I can’t argue this point.
“So I don’t want to go,” she continues. “Heaven’s a bad place.”
She opens the brightly colored spiral notebook in her lap and informs me: “I’m going to write that down in my diarrea.”
Some days, that's the only viewpoint that feels right.
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