October
I'm stretched out on my bed belly-down, listening to a voice mumble to itself from inside a wall.Yes. A voice sounds different when it 's talking to someone else. Less muffled. Less solid. But I listen to the sound and imagine water sliding smooth rivers of glass through icy caves, and it shatters. The title of my memoir will be A Grey Wind, and my black-and-white-photo face, eyes turned down, a comma of hair slashed over my muddly skin will sit on the cover.You can't see my hands. Or maybe you can. They're holding a small, purple flower, and I'm tearing off the petals with the tips of my fingers. Behind my back is a flat field the color