As a child, Melony lived in a hospital.  It was both one of her favorite and least favorite times.  She could've done without the needles, but the white walls and the sheets gave her ideas about feathers, and she was convinced that there were seagulls living in the building.  She once even warned a neighbor that his goldfish might disappear one evening.  The doctors moved him down the hall.

The first time Melony heard a piano, she thought it was a waterfall.  Up close, rolling ivory fascinated her; the weight of the music felt perfect, like the pressure of the ocean--heavy, but also light.  When her brother played his baby grand, she loved nothing more than to lay on top of it.

Melony never understood her apartment. The balcony overlooked a freeway, but she was always convinced the cars were waves and the smog was sea mist.  When she talked about the beautiful view, her relatives smiled and reminded her to take her pills.

Even though her mother died many years ago, Melony remembers her all of the time; she remembers things like aprons, fingers caked with flour, and billowing blond hair, buoyant and curly.  She remembers gravestones in the background, anchored too deeply in the earth.  She remembers the sight of ashes, wafting through the air, like ships.