“The sun moves on, Miranda.”
Mom used to say that when I wasn’t in a big enough hurry, which was every evening at supper.
“Are you gonna finish those peas before it sets tonight? All the dishes are loaded except yours, so when you’re done, load yours up and turn it on, OK?”
I’d shake my head yes, but she was always too busy wiping counters to look at me, so she always asked again.
“OK? Speak up for heaven’s sake.”
“I said OK.”
“Say it louder, then.”
Every time she’d say that, I’d think about yelling “OK” and then asking if I was loud enough, but I never did.
“Do you do this at school? Stare at nothing for your whole lunch break instead of eating your food?”
“No.” I never got peas at school when the cafeteria served them, and besides, I wasn’t staring at nothing. I was thinking.
“Well, that’s good, cause you wouldn’t have any friends if you did.”
Our conversation usually ended somewhere around here. She’d leave the room and I’d keep looking out the window.
(This is a new story that I’ve started and I have no idea what happens next, but I think I like Miranda. I will update this entry when I finish it.)