The magic of light encased, hanging down from the ceiling, or swinging on a long stick, flickering. The glimmer inside a paper fish’s belly, yellow star fruit, hairy rambutan. When I was small I pulled a little white curly crepe rabbit with four wooden wheels. A candle was lit inside, held by a thin wire. My sister and I walked up and down the length of the short corridor at home. She with a butterfly of transparent wings. We were the keepers of light, short legs toddling, gleeful and drooling, a kind of mythical youngling along with the shadows that cast on the walls and ceiling.
In Turkey there are congested galaxies. In Morocco you have to rub the painted glass three times (to clean away the dirt) before the genie appears. He has grown big and slightly stooped since the last time we met but he’s the same one, I’m sure of it.
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