The light is returning (though I did sleep in, so I wasn’t waking up to 6am dark the way I usually do during the week…). But the light, the light! It makes everything feel more possible. Especially this novel-writing thing, that can, at 6am feel more daunting than anything else I know). But the light! The light!
When Amelia was flying, she’d be too high up to make out individual people, but just in case anyone was looking up, hand shielding the sun from their eyes to see the metallic belly of her Avian Moth, she’d dip left, waving her wing hello. It was called a moth, though it did not beat its hairy wings around light bulbs or other imagined moons. Instead, it had two sets of wings, like a horizontal bookshelf, wings that were made out of painted canvas stretched so tight, it could have been metal.
“Latte, please,” I say when I get to the front of the line.
“Name?” the barista asks.
“Amelia,” I say, before realizing he meant my name. “Sorry,” I start, but he’s already written Amelia on the side of the cup, and underneath a big L for latte. It’s too late to tell him my name isn’t Amelia. Claire. It’s Claire.