imaginative ovenbird Three girls whose collective ages equal less than thirty years, still young even if they add themselves together, but growing faster than I care to admit. All three wielding witchcraft known only to those who still have a foot in childhood. Three of them laughing. Three in the living room staging an elaborate play. It’s loosely based on Wicked, I think. They’re singing “Popular” at the top of their lungs, but the plot refuses to stay still. One has found a hand made broom I bought at a market and is flying up and down the stairs. One is choreographing a dance while another plays the piano. Pretend we’re in the forest. Pretend you’re sleep walking. Pretend we’re invisible. Pretend everything we touch is invisible too. Pretend I’ve possessed you. Pretend you’re my mother. Pretend we bring you back to life. I hear the distinctive chime of a Tibetan singing bowl. The sound of fleeting innocence. Three of them dancing in a circle. I say to the child I used to be: Pretend we’re holding hands. Pretend it’s summer. Pretend we’re free. Pretend the future is still an unwritten book. Pretend we have a quill made from a peacock feather. Pretend this ink is magic. Pretend we bring you back to life. 260321 what's it to you? who go blather from