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I could taste the fog and the salt air. I made camp in the large closet. I didn’t have to, but I wanted a cozy space. I remember, years later, I made camp in Papa’s study. I loved the gentle rise of the couch, like a wave. I loved the painting of blues and aquamarines like glass, glowing with light. I loved the books and books and books with Papa’s handwritten notes in them.

Everything was coated in fog, deep into my lungs. I had rescued a moth with tattered wings, kept it in a glass jar, made a carpet of leaves. She had danced her wings to nothingness. They were ragged and grey. She was as beautiful as a sea maiden in her wedding dress. She heard the waves trapped in the rock, echoing against her ear. She saw the myriad of sea snails–orange, zebra, sometimes green. She watched the shooting flight of the sculpins. She played with the turbans lining the tide pools. She saw.

The moth died the next morning, her back shiny like a new penny. Her limbs were drawn inwards, no longer needed. Dust gathered around her. And she was gone. But she wasn’t forgotten. She is immortal.

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