The lead soprano’s memories pull me in, and for a moment I am her, dashing out onto a stage bathed in golden light and sending my voice to fill the theater. The images are fuzzy and the emotions distant, but if I surrender myself to them, I can almost forget what I am for a moment.Įvery night when the curtains rise and lights engulf the stage, when the seats fill with whispering patrons and the air shivers with the strum of strings, I glimpse the world outside-a world I’ve never seen with my eyes but know better than the beat of my heart because I’ve experienced it through a thousand different pasts. The lead soprano’s vibrato trembles in the air, and my eyes fall shut as her music sends her memories rippling across the inside of my eyelids in shades of gray. Music soars above the audience to where I hide behind a marble cherub near the Channe Opera House’s domed ceiling. She earned a bachelor’s in English with minors in editing and French, which essentially means she spent all of her university time reading and eating French pastries.
When she’s not hiding from the heat, she’s corralling her three wild-but adorable-children, dreaming up stories about kissing and murder and magic, and eating peanut butter by the spoonful straight from the jar. Olson claims New Hampshire as her home but has somehow found herself in Texas, where she spends most of her time singing praises to the inventor of the air conditioner. You’re the real dream, and this book wouldn’t exist without you. You wrangle kids, you keep the peanut butter stocked, and you don’t bat an eye when I ask you how best to stab a person with a shard of glass.
0 kommentar(er)
