Often she enters the darkness of my slumbering mind, her earnest eyes —I don’t know what color— holding me within their gentle crow’s feet and laughter— Her low tones reach from the basement all the way up to those soul-windows. Pane by pane, it breaks me until she takes my elbow and leads me into her staccato melody of moon and sky and heart— Sometimes she strokes my hair. Like against like, her hand is warm against my head. Then come tears I cannot name. She speaks, and the words tip up my chin, pulling me toward her waiting arms. This porchlight soul draws out the moth in me— I flit and buzz for a chance at the light. She catches me in her palm, laughing again— I have come apart entirely— a cascade of tiny mirrors and bits of earth— and she calls it beautiful.
About the Author
Jen George is an umasked, uncaped, possibly unhinged superhero who writes things, works, takes care of her family, distracts herself with random projects while on a deadline, and studies fiction in the Stonecoast MFA program. Her first novella, Bufflye, appeared in Silver Pen’s online literary magazine, Youth Imagination.