When I think of Astor, I think a tornado–
cotton balls and sprinkles. And though
I never really looked at her,
I can tell she is soft. Kind. And when I rub
ears red against tile floor, melting into dirt,
I can hear her talk. To me.
About sugar mostly and how she desperately
wants a dress made from ribbons.
So, I throw what I can—blades of grass,
saltwater taffy, and bottle caps.
I listen for them to hit the bottom.
I listen for her to laugh.
