When I was a child, I yelled for the moon out the window of my mother’s car. It was a creamy pink saucer of milk in the sky, and I was an imaginative little girl. A very quiet girl. Like, rumors that I was mute kind of quiet. But what I didn’t say out loud was coloring the soil of a rich inner life. At that moment, the color was creamy pink. I wanna moooooon, I apparently cried. I often wonder how the moon coaxed such a loud response out of such a quiet little girl. And why it still does.

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