In that life, you were a moth –   nothing pretty like those lime green luna moths with their tapered wingtips and twisted tails and mouths  that somewhere along the way ceased to exist. No –    you were a brown moth, you said. An American dagger moth, wings dripping with rows of thin black [

Back then, nestled in the cinnamon fern corner of the backyard, next to our wooden pirate ship with its mushy, rotting planks was our sand-box kitchen.   And back then, the kitchen was alive; the chandelier  was an evergreen, the tiles canary-gold pansies, the sink a bird bath with water trickling