My daddy is dead. Marcy buried him last night. She told me not to look but I had to watch. Each shovelful of dirt put him a little further away from me until that’s all there was: dirt. Lumpy and shitty and brown. I used to play in that dirt right behind the house. When it rained, my boots stomped through and my hands patted mud into pies. They were my presents for him; daddy said he always craved my mud pies on rainy days. He was my daddy. And now he’s not. Now he’s just a body in the ground. A body in our dirt.

Today is my birthday. Marcy begs me to blow out the candles on my cake but I can’t bring myself to do it. I watch wax slide onto icing. How quickly does a candle burn out? And is it still a candle once it’s done? I ask my questions to the moon tonight. There is no one left to talk to. My daddy is dead. Marcy’s sobs leak through the thin walls into my room. My cheeks are dry but the sky cries for me. For my birthday, God gives daddy a mud pie. I pray real hard before bed so He knows I’m thankful and that I really mean it. God doesn’t like people who don’t really mean it.

Marcy did not make me breakfast this morning. I sat in my chair and waited and waited. I stayed perfectly still. But everything gets too loud when I’m still so I let the noise buzz throughme. I buzzed and buzzed until Marcy ran down to tell me to stop. “You made the house shake again, Dee,” she sighed at me. I didn’t mean to but I didn’t dare tell her that. Marcy is not like God; she never cares if I mean it or not. My tummy rumbled hard. She didn’t hear it. Not that it mattered, I knew food wouldn’t make it past my throat anymore. I excused myself from the table to no one in particular and ran outside.

There’s no one in the world besides daddy and Marcy and me. I mean, there’s no one besides Marcy and me. Well, really, there’s no one besides me. The night daddy died I think Marcy died too. She looks through me but all I see is her. Marcy was supposed to save me from the pit in my stomach that daddy left. I think the pit in her stomach swallowed her whole. I don’t know how to save Marcy, that wasn’t supposed to be my job. I’m only eleven—twelve now.

I sit outside and make mud pie after mud pie until I’m caked with dirt and my fingers cramp. I look at the one stick in the mud. “Look daddy, your favorite,” I whisper to him. The earth cracks open and all my pies fall in. There’s a gust of wind that shoots out when the ground closes back up. It sounded like daddy’s burps; he must have liked my gift. I left one extra for myself to make sure they taste good. My tired shaky hands shovel gritty chocolate-colored sludge into my mouth. Each handful feels like it brings me a little closer to daddy. I eat and eat until there’s no more mud in the backyard. Marcy does not notice. I think I am more mud than girl now. I am more daddy than myself and the pit lessens. Lumpy and shitty and brown and full.