Dear Charolette--
If you hear that I died
poorly--that I did
something sinful
--you must not believe.
I'm in heaven now
just as I promised and anyway
the suicides here are as beautiful
as anyone else.

In your bed I told you
about the glory of angels 
but how could I know then
the mercy with which they'd free me
of my body.  Understand--I longed to die
so Goethe was right--
the devils rending my flesh
were really angels
liberating my soul.

Charolette dear--paint this for me and sing.

Your brother and aunt and grandfather send love.
We're all as beautiful 
as anyone else.
--Mother