I wrote a letter to the sun every Monday. The heat tickled my neck like a feather cooked by fire. I sat beside mother's vermillion veranda, my arm looped around hers, and my flyaways nearly grazing the tip of her pale chin. She always reminded me of the moon. The way she smiled and glowed at me and the other villagers. Sometimes to get her to smile, I would tell her stories of lands far from our own reality, when the moon was gone and a sheet of light began to slither up. I'd look at mother excitingly, opening my mouth. Dancing dragons. Princesses who can fly. Men who could melt one's heart in a single sentence. When my story had ended, I would look at mother and wait...
