I wake in the blue hour, before the streetlights quit. My granddaughter's fourth birthday. A new life together.
Last night we lit a candle shaped like a 4 on a cupcake. She blew it out before I finished the song.
This morning we walk to the bus stop. She's starting pre-K. I'm starting over at forty-nine.
The bus driver on the last route nods as we board. He's seen us every day for weeks. He knows.
My hands smell like fish scales no matter how much I wash them. But she doesn't mind. She holds my hand tight.
She asks if I'll be here when she gets back. I say I'll be here forever. The blue hour fades.
The streetlights click off. The bus lurches forward. We're on our way.