Chime

by DEBRA KAUFMAN

We were birds then at thirteen, a chime of wrens chirping, carbonated goddesses blowing bubbles, spilling secrets, dancing the latest dances, we did each others’ hair, practiced kissing, gossiped (a girl’s first step toward insight), we shook the magic eight ball, could not imagine a path toward our future — we only knew we didn’t want our mothers’ lives, taking dictation, cleaning up messes, hiding tins of money, we were angels falling, wingless, trusting the wind to lift our bodies of light far above the silver water tower, to let us down kindly somewhere, anywhere wild and broad and new.

illustration by KRISTEN SOLECKI

For Thanksgiving, Oscar Diaz creates a delicious fusion of traditional recipes