"Where did she go?" they asked often, a question stacked on top of other questions—grief, curiosity, the need to fit a story into an explanation.
The canoe scraped a submerged log. For a moment everything stopped: the buzz of insects, the small calls of birds, the distant hum of a highway—then resumed as if we had slipped between the ticking of a clock. She reached into the water and brought up a handful of silt. Between her palms a little city of washed seeds lay, black and perfect.
I Raft You, Big Sister Is a Witch
"Maybe," she answered. "Or maybe I broke what needed breaking."
Her laugh rippled like thrown glass. "I never draw maps. I make signs." i raf you big sister is a witch new
"I'll follow the maps you left," I said.
When she was a dot against the bright line of land, the water behind her shimmered and let out a long, low sound—like a bell struck under glass. The ribbon in my hand cooled. Somewhere upstream a heron unfolded itself and flew. The town lights blinked awake and the sky embroidered itself with the first small stars. "Where did she go
We cut the current by the ruined mill and drifted beneath sycamores. She reached out and touched the bark, whispering a name I didn't know; the tree's leaves sighed and loosened a shower of tiny, paper moths that glowed briefly and then dissolved into river smoke. I should have been startled, but I only laughed until the sound made the water tremble.