I try every day to do a couple of five minute writing exercises, just to keep my brain working.
Underneath a steamer-trunk in an attic in a house on a street in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan is a leather-bound book with your name in it. Next to your name is the day you will die, the exact time, and a sentence that describes perfectly your favorite thing.
The trunk belonged to someone’s aunt who had survived some war long ago. It is covered with stickers of the places she’s been, and quite a few she never visited. The book, of coarse, belongs to God.
God lives as a Filipino-Irish youth in a working class neighborhood. He laughs at younger children, sneers at teenagers, and ignores adults.
The worst thing God can imagine is passing a Halloween without getting in the paper.
He finds dog poop in a flaming bag trite. Phone calls from dead relatives became boring years ago.
Last year he had turned the Detroit river to blood. Just before city officials tested it, he transmogrified it to red food coloring. That was the funny part.
But you, you are His favorite. God thinks about you every day. Sometimes he pushes the trunk aside and flips the book to your page. He gets out his eraser, changes a number here, adds a word. Then he chuckles to himself.
Life’s a joke.