Anne Champion At age seven, I believed I would fly someday, tramping through our house in my father’s leather jacket, arms hanging limply to the floor, and his old pilot’s cap with the smudged goggles from god-knows-where, so big that they left indentations on my cheeks. I sat on the stool of his workbench in this attire, encircled by oversized dreams, as he crafted miniature model airplanes from World War I and hung them from the...

Anne Champion Your death was the illusion of glitter smeared across a lake that vanishes as the sun dips under the horizon, while grief clanged within, subsiding the way ice melts in a glass of vodka: potent, transparent, dissolving clear against clear. I became nocturnal, searching in the crisp coldness of night sky, imagining you were the amnesia inducing warmth I sought to live in as the sun rose and I drifted to sleep. Life was not as...