Feelings
The least said
By Emmanuelle
Eight and in the third grade is not a good age and a good year to find one’s self. One is too young and too old all at once.
She had swept the floor twice. She had fluffed the dust. She had stocked the books on the rack. There are no chores left to be done. She can not put it off. And so, to home she must go.
The two blocks seemed too short a walk. She heaved her bag high up her back. She breathed-in deep, she breathed-out slow. In her mind, she held back the clock; but the clock spun fast. She placed her left foot just past the right, the right just past the left. That was how she forced her feet to walk. Left then right, left then right, now or not, now or not.
As she feared, she saw the gate at once as she turns the bend.
The gate made too much noise. She closed her eyes as she made the last steps to the door. She dropped the bag to the foot of her bed. She held on to its post. She prayed. Do it now, or do not.
She searched for her Mom and Dad. When she found them, the words just spilled out of her mouth.
They: What? You are not the first this time? How can that be?
She: I do not know. We have the same grades.
Her dad: Then you could have tied for first.
She: He is first. I am not.
Her mom: Oh dear, you must have done a wrong.
She: I have not. You had, though.
Both: What?
She: You gave them a ball for a gift. His dad gave them the rack.
They: Oh.
She: And his dad made him a King. I marched like all the rest of the kids.
They: Oh.
And that is why our world is as crazed as it is now. We start them young. Do I have to say more?
(Author’s note: This true story has just one-syllable words.)
(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
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