Today, I am Luzie. I am wearing a white skirt and pink fur. I am (I think) an expression of a mouse. Or maybe a dog. Often I have thought that the world exposes itself in a chain of discrete statements like a row of iridescent beetles pinned onto corkboard. For instance, within the striped booth, the cotton candy machine spins pink on even days and blue on odd days.

Luzie, the fathers say, this is Luzie, directing the eyes of the children on me. The sky is gray and soft. Brief screams as the roller coaster crests a hill. Often I imagine Elsie were here, laughing at me inside this suit. She would tell me that I am wrapped in this word, Luzie, as if I was a creature that wears its own soul for a skin. She would forgive me my impurities because bodies were built impure. She would tell me that wearing this suit (even though pink and furry) is a penance, and, like a pilgrimage, my sweating and discomfort and silence cleanse me.

Once while frying pancakes over a fire, Elsie claimed that language anesthetizes experience. She refused to speak, and I (partially from spite) conversed with the surrounding objects (the coffee pot, a fallen maple branch, the glistening and pungent body of a trout), sharing in their little jokes and observations.

The Ferris wheel is a giant gear. The marching band blares down Candy Street. Yesterday, a child shouted, Not Luzie, not Luzie, not Luzie, pointing respectively to a Sno Cone cart, a snagged balloon, and a purple bench. This is one way. Often I whisper a good bye as I fasten Luzie’s head over my own.

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