The cell is thirteen and a half by eleven feet.  The floor is dirt, and on the really cold mornings last March, i remember being able to see frost on the tiny blades of grass that tried to grow till they realized there was no life in this place.  And so they died, leaving us alone.

i can’t speak for Jesus, but often i know that i’ve thought about joining them.  Of leaving this small space and coming back up to grow wild in some wondrous open field.

i’ve named this cell Godforsaken, and it bothers Jesus, but he always forgives me when i curse his father.  He laughs when i tease him, and sometimes he says just the right thing to ease my troubled mind.