the light girl

she blows in through your window bearing gifts of angel cake and sparkling wine.  she says she has a gypsy caravan waiting if you want to come - you can only take one suitcase the weight of reverie, three poodles, or a vision of a lithuanian hot air balloon.  then she laughs like it's summer and you're having popsicles, and tells you not to take her seriously.  but it's too late.  you have your suitcase in one hand carrying nothing but love, the kind that melts fast, and you're hopeful.