St. Louis June 1899
I remember dozens of words my mother and I invented in my childhood, but you and I have added so many over the years, tucked away in our correspondence and our sketchbooks, that I wrote a glossary to keep track of them:
Bûdas lota̤: Gariffo Tsûvon: Kyn nûynao: Loita̤: Vybo: Vocha̤: Floitza:
When I’ve finished a chapter of my book, I go back and find homes for our words. A Martian lake becomes Etzoina̤ loisa, a body of placid water. A forest becomes a grove of majestic old-growth Kymos lota̤a. My fictional Sara, who is quicker and more daring than I, picks sweet (Litzen) purple (Apru) berries (Tûlaa) and eats juicy orange Etza̤ right off the tree.
Some days I write no new pages at all, but instead just savor the way our secrets wriggle into my tale.
