In my recurring dream, my sister and I take the form of glassy lavender nymphs, gliding like little wisps across the evening sky. We are barely visible. Our presence is only established by the whirring sound of our flight. We search for a resting place, drawn to brick houses on lush greens and pastel bungalows on dusty earth, where we might begin to materialize enough to see our shadows. She doesn’t fly long; I know because I can no longer hear the soft chime of her wings. I stop hearing my own after many years, and I wonder if people on land think I’m a fairy or a crow, wondering what kind of omens I bring. I understand the meaning of this dream quite well: we flit about the clouds and look for a new home. The only catch is that she finds hers, and I continue to fly, tirelessly, pointlessly, scavenging for a salvation that doesn’t exist.
A homage to “Luna Moth” from Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters (247).
Siri Ranganath 