I didn't want any of her damn cookies.

Seven orange Jennifers came. They might have been a department. Some had the heads of elk or deer. Others had heads. Like department heads. Or heads of lettuce. There were more than seven. Each Jennifer was seven. And they had a special mode of years. They had years you could carry as your hands. Years you could caress with, years whose fingers could imply the functions of some complex instrument. Many of the Jennifers were orange, but it was pronounced bellmenomaithae. I had one whose ears were made of bees and wasps. My mom was another. A third was the tree you remember where the accident happened. You know the one. It was known even before the Jennifers arrived. They each see their own moon, you know. And each of the moons has craters just like you or me. Except they are cities. Where ghosts write some of our dreams. It's not exactly orange. I don't know how to describe it. It's that color time makes in passing, when death is mixed with mystery in living eyes. I was born among them.