as if she lived

I think last night I dreamed in the head of my new main character. I think I was her, watching the train depart, waiting on the platform, which is strange because my next book isn’t in the first person. I know this. I think I know this. I think plums do not belong in cream, and still I sliced and set them side by side, swimming with the peaches anyway. This week an agent said [name of narrator] is likable, as if she lived, as if she ran for Best Smile. See me about this after. I remembered that a colleague’s five year-old daughter two years ago drew a picture for her, imaginary girl I thought I saw in the reflection of a Michigan-bound train. I felt responsible to bring them joy. I taped the picture to my wall. I slept on the dreaming side. Things I saw in my head are giving strangers a reason. Things are coming clearer. I can almost believe that the world is not inside me, that something that occurred to me on a porch might matter. It might matter that I wrote it down. Tea light. Lamb. I want to make it matter. I want to write a life. From the window, I can see for miles.