I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.
The first bout of warm spring rain caused normally respectable women to pull off their stockings and run through muddy puddles alongside their children.
The whole world had given up on love anyway and clung instead to its malformed cousins: lust, narcissism, self-interest.
Fate. As a child, that word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.
Up here it seems we have only the stars, but even they seem small in the midst of that terrifying night sky...I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.
But while the thought of being dead seemed appealing, the actual act of dying did not.
She is the glorious reincarnation of every woman ever loved.
Folks around here like to say we came from the stars. Perhaps it's simpler to think of us not as human but as creatures made of stardust--that if you cut us, not blood but constellations will pour from out wounds.
Because I'm your mother, that's why.
She didn't see it because when it came to love, she saw what she wanted to see.