Pasturelands; Dreams vol. 1

We live in a low green pasture. The neighbors' children are in and out of the house. Their laughter is like two warm palms of sunlight smoothing my hair, cupping my cheeks. Being an outsider to children's games feels like an ant bite, or a thorn. The pain hardly lingers, but it is pain.

A rumor spreads that the government will be shutting off everyone's electricity for two weeks. We are worried, whispering, wondering if we should pack up and go somewhere safer. But where could be safer than this? I sit on the porch with wind under my dress and a book to read (my mind is so fond of this: writing books for me to read in my dreams).

The first chapter is about a man whose family has died. He's on a train, watching a smokey mirage of his wife and children evaporate from the platform. I can hear my mother over my shoulder, asking when I'll start packing. A car's rumbling up the long, long road. I know I won't leave here. I can't. I won't.