I’m sitting on a train. It is quiet. I sit alone holding a grey book, at one end of an empty car. The world around this miniscule, individual world in which I sit is moving quickly, chugging by, spinning round, wearing us down. Is the train moving, or is the earth? Is time moving, or am I? I’m sitting on a train. It is quiet. I sit alone holding a grey book, at one end of an empty car. An old lady boards. I cannot see her face. She wears black, her face covered by a shawl. Sh

Spirited was one word for it—for Mama. For when I’d have to try talking her off of the moon, for when she’d crash back down to bed for weeks