I’m skipping on a road made of pink ribbon winding through outer space, in the body of the kid in a painting that hangs in my grandma’s house. My hair is long, thin, and green like hers.
I skip along the ribbon at a clumsy glide, wearing the smock-dress, purple in the painting but green in the dream. I have her skinny legs and expressively still face. I’m fragile but tenacious. I’m Christopher Robin. I’m the Little Prince. (more…)
