A very small girl stood on top of her dresser, knocking on the jewelry box as if she expected an answer.
At first, she thought it must just be her mind playing tricks on her.
Which color should I draw with?
Imperfections are what is beautiful.
It went around and around, never stopping, never slowing, that carousel the color of night.
We clasped hands under the big green sky, in the sticky quiet that comes before the storm.
The house she and her mother shared was small, so small it begged pardon for being there at all.
I used to not like my hands, blocky and sturdy with thick knuckles, not dainty and delicate in the least. I always thought mine were better suited for a plow than a piano.
We’re only here for a little while, but some part of us remains forever.
It was his freckles that convinced her he was worth the extra effort.