Arya

The dining room waits in reverent silence as the afternoon light spills through the west-facing windows, illuminating dust specks that dance above the space’s centerpiece: a massive table that has served four generations of my family.

Once, we believed in the Tooth Fairy,
a girl in glitter with sparkly wings,
who would sneak in the dark,
to swap teeth for quarters,
as if they were treasures,
as if our childhood decay
was worth more than gold.

Am I the rainbow or the rain that makes it?
You ask, but it’s me asking, too.
Do I paint the sky with color,
or am I the prism that bends the light?

One voice says: You are a song played in a minor key,