My writing room houses a piano and the OG Ms. Monroe from the Clover Farm Store and endless art and trinkets curated from coastlines and faery realms and artists mainlining muses. Like a swan to water, my seventeen-year-old is drawn to musical instruments, particularly the piano, and often she plays while I write, her fingers leaping across the keys like dandelion seeds in the wind, the clacks of my typing the bass beat to her melody. Sometimes my three-year-old is running around, doing her "science workin' stuff" and I might be catching a word here and there, snatching a bit of prose out of the air, observing the wild electricity of my girls' childhoods. My yellow lab snores at my feet, my other rescue dog's nose to the window, protecting those within.
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