My mother never wanted me to cry, so I kept the tears inside my belly until they grew an ocean. My mother is afraid of water and afraid of dying. Cinderella cries over a hazel twig planted on her mother’s grave so that it will grow into a tree that houses a fairy who can grant wishes. My mother doesn’t want to become an ingredient for wishes. She only wants to wish. And so I listen. I drink her tears, but instead of sprouting, I shrink. I shrink until I am just a seed with a small pool of water inside its hull. I remain lying on the hard floor until a little girl comes along. The little girl wears the shadow of someone familiar. “Nothing is alive here, move over,” she says. I follow her orders and move over. We keep doing this until I no longer know how long I have been moving. Some days, I wish I could crack open and spill my tiny pool of water on the little girl, who stays with me just to keep me moving, to give her a chance to grow into something. When the little girl grows up, she will be a dandelion, a crown of seeds floating away, finally away.