Farewell to summer, though summer had hardly begun. The suitcase waited patiently by the door. It was full of doll booties and fake jewels and tin cans. A roll of smart Duct tape clamped the bulging case shut all over. Outside there were birds and chimneys, and the sky was having a bipolar fit—lightning and thunder in one half, smiling sunshine in the other. The girl paced the sidewalk like it was the halls of a mental institution. Lawnmowers, garage sales, clouds, motorcycles—what did anything matter? Even if she had the words to speak the thoughts which rose in her, they would be meaningless as a glass of icy Kool-Aid with the penguins in Antarctica. The words would freeze her soul and make her squirm with anguish. She thought, Don’t let anyone tell you words are dead. They can kill. They can be killed. Words can bleed and cut. They can sing or be sung to sleep. They can sleep in grassy meadows. They are the sun to light my day and the moon to light my night.