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What people don’t understand, they destroy.
If a ghost left a mark, she thought, it would be like this—delicate wing prints in the snow.
There was comfort in making lists, in knowing just what to put on them, in checking off items accomplished.
“What can I say—weird stuff always makes me think of you,”
It scared her sometimes, how good she was at lying.
Sometimes a vivid imagination truly was a curse.
“Why are they afraid of you?” “People fear anything different, anything they don’t understand.”
People take pity on you when you are young and pretty and have a sad story to tell. People are drawn to sorrow.
Mama was fickle like that. Things held her interest only so long, then she was chasing after something new.
