Her Father Must Be a Skywriter
Her hair color was inconsequential except that it was his cast. She lived, always looking up, waiting for his love to spew out a frothy clue. There was no foolishness. He pulled the lever to release foam, turning or dipping to make a word. To her it was gospel. The book of him. The stories he told, she inhaled as air. He took all the lessons about pain, loss, great art: spelled them out carefully for her against the edge of the world.
From Rogue Apostle by Mary Jane Nealon, published by Four Way Books. Copyright © 2001 by Mary Jane Nealon. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.