It was shortly after the doctor inquired as to what I ate that my mother and I moved to the city. My mother believes in loss, so we had to go. In the city we shared a bed in a tiny room next to the garage in her brother's house. His wife would run their car, I think, to fill the tiny room with fumes, so my mother and I would go to a McDonalds. She read the paper there and looked pretty. I might have played, though I don't remember playing. I would walk around dreaming up worlds. When she was away at work I would sit in the tiny room smelling my mother's scarves.
I was seven years old and cried for the first thirty days in the city. I missed the lake and our dog Toby and the apricot tree. At night my mother and I would read children's novels together on the theme of animals: elephants, giraffes, sometimes frogs. In my sadness I could smell trees better. I noticed the grass wasn't just to lay in, but was very green and wet and soft, and all of that meant something dear to me. I drew comfort in the touch of wood I found along the railroad, came to see where it had come from, and how it made me feel at my fingertips.
Soon, although the sadness never really left, I came to know I'd be alright since this world is a magical place.
I was seven years old and cried for the first thirty days in the city. I missed the lake and our dog Toby and the apricot tree. At night my mother and I would read children's novels together on the theme of animals: elephants, giraffes, sometimes frogs. In my sadness I could smell trees better. I noticed the grass wasn't just to lay in, but was very green and wet and soft, and all of that meant something dear to me. I drew comfort in the touch of wood I found along the railroad, came to see where it had come from, and how it made me feel at my fingertips.
Soon, although the sadness never really left, I came to know I'd be alright since this world is a magical place.
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