Dots of pollen and dust hung in the light, drifting slowly down toward the water. Fairies, Miranda used to call them. When she was little she would lie on her back and watch the dust motes dancing, watch and watch until she was really seeing nothing but the tiny imperfections in her own vision. Even then, that young, she had been trying to float away from her present reality. She could remember spinning and spinning in the front yard until she fell down in the grass, happy to feel nothing but dizzy, gleefully disconnected from the sick-death smell of her mother’s bedroom and the oppressiveness
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