Skip to main content

Too Much Crying

 Everything used to be big when I was small, or maybe it was just that it was the same size and I was shorter. Sometimes I have vague memories of a hallway that I no longer know, each step tall enough that I had to lift my leg high up to my waist to climb up them. There was someone waiting at the top for me, a nondescript figure in brown heels. The ones that look like they have a T going across them. With each step that I take up the stairs, her mouth moves. I can’t comprehend that she is talking to me.

Colorful paint has been put on all of my fingers by a tall lady, who probably isn’t that old but she’s so much taller than me that I can’t see the top of her. Taller than the highest tower that I can build out of blocks, taller than me until they go falling down. It was hard work to build that tower of blocks, and I cried when they fell down. I didn’t like seeing my tower fall down. 

Just like when the tall lady puts the paint on my hand, I start to cry because it is cold. I don’t like how it is cold, and I want it off. I let out a scream, and then a loud scream, but nobody listens. They go back to the books and the blocks, and the lady who painted my hand grabs my wrist as I start wiping the paint on my skirt. She says some words that I don’t know, and she paints my hand again. The handprints go on a pretty pink sheet of paper, like the ones that daddy uses to make paper animals. I jump out of the yellow chair at the table, and it makes a big sound when it falls. The paints hurt my hand, and the sound hurt my ears.

 I climb into the cubby with my backpack and cover my ears. It’s all loud, too loud. I want to go home, where the loudest sound is me or my fire truck that I got on C-a-r-e-e-r D-a-y. I scream and scream for my mommy, and when the tall lady tries to reach me, I kick her. My pink shoe hits her in the face, and she calls my mommy. When mommy comes, she puts me in the car seat. She says my name, Poppy, and “stop crying” as we go home. 

I go back to daycare and the tall lady is gone. The new lady has chocolate skin and says the tall lady isn’t coming back because of me. Mommy says the tall lady didn’t know how to handle me.

Mommy says I’m wild. But the other kids are running and crying. Am I not supposed to break the crayons? 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

[lore] Backstory of a Fae.

Within every world, there are always those who silently declare themselves apaart. Full of a more ancient magic and a history stretching father back than the longest rope, they set themselves apart for the sake of watching over the world in a place untouched. Fae are different from the elves, with their abilities that range in power and capability. Each fae possesses a rare, more powerful magic within that category of an element. If nothing else, this is an excuse for those Elders within the fae to keep their people apart from the remainder of the species that dot the land. While the lore itself and composition of the fae villages depends on the world, it remains true that in their hands lies knowledge. Not quite dangerous, but close, if irresponsible persons were to get ahold of it when they did not understand such a thing. Shiro was one of those fae, born under the name Sena Akamatsu as the eldest son in a family. From birth, the child was shown to have a magic leaning towar...
Post a Comment
Read more

Dreams Born Amidst Adversity: Abroad in Japan Review

  “In smooth, methodical prose, Broad tells the story of self-discovery across the ocean and finding your voice. Unique and alluring.” A small store in Barcelona, smaller than an apartment yet crowded in among countless other buildings. With the intention of showcasing authentic Japanese culture in a space 10 thousand kilometers from Tokyo, Satori is a store which makes the most of its limited space. Books about Japanese culture lined one wall, most in Spanish but with a few Catalan books in between. As appealing as those bound works appeared to be, for an American tourist who didn’t speak much Spanish, they were far out of my reach.  On the opposite wall, stacked upon each other with all the organization of mismatched brick, was a small pile of English books. From the stack, I picked out Abroad in Japan, intrigued by the words written across the top. That classic phrase, which had accomplished its intended purpose by luring me in by promising the text within its pages was wor...
Post a Comment
Read more