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insistently,
America was an iceberg shattered into a billion fragments, and on each stood a person, rotating like an ice floe in a storm.
“She likes fairy tales,” she said, and the mother smiled in relief to hear the present tense. “My mother is from Russia,” the father said. “Fairy tales are our milk. Everyone needs faith.” Naomi tilted her head at him. He had made her think of something. She held out the book of Russian tales. “Which story does she like the best?” she asked. “Oh, that’s easy,” the mom said. “It’s called ‘The Snow Girl.’” She paused, in memory, and Naomi could imagine Madison curled on her lap, reading together. “It’s about a little girl made of snow.”
The cedar shook its branches. In rare pockets there were nut trees. The very oil of the nut meats warmed the air, causing the grass beneath to blush. All of these things had existed before the girl came. But now they were real.
