I am sitting on a riverbank. Small lantern lights hover, reflected in the rippled glass they ride on. Bulbous dragonflies flit like old nosy aunts with rustling petticoats, their gossimer wings. Delicate trails on my legs outline the grass pressed where my kimono doesn't cover. My socks now stained green, echoing the fireworks above. The smell of explosions can't cover the smell of bleach on my hands. Clean for a New Year.
My mother, perfectly resplendant in silk, watches my tall father and uncles chase my brothers around. My hair has started to droop. It looks prettier this way. The clock's hollow bounce counts out the time. I want to run in the pond with my socks on. Feel the cold soak through the cotton. Chase the lights on the waves, sparkling like a thousand little diamonds, wishing me luck. My younger brother has pulled a few spare red lanterns off the roof and is now bouncing them like jolly soccerballs. My uncles find this hilarious. My father is embarassed. Over their commotion, I can still hear the music from inside.
I had a windmill. It has gone somewhere.