God met me at the bus stop. he held my hand, commented on my sweater and said I was good to be prepared. I climbed on the seesaw, the thick metal digging at my thighs, but I carried on for childhood's sake. "I'm just going to look at the view," he said, "stay where I can see you."
The tour started moving, making way up the hill. I dismounted the seesaw, imagining it was a horse; a longing pain in my chest. I scooped up my black backpack, trudged through nettle as tall as I am, cursing under my breath for the itches on my ankles and the narrowness of the road. I followed trustingly, like a donkey led down the Grand Canyon.
Moans gurgled in my throat, I didn't want to take this journey. One foot pressed on leading the other. one, two, one, two. Ahead a chestnut poked her head over the gray stone. My aches melted, the grunts subsided. I stroked her face, looked in her marble eyes like a traveler sees water in the dessert. I pressed on to Sylvia's grave, upset by the gaudiness of knick-knacks left for her. She deserved more.
Streams of burnt orange tore through the clouds, time to head back to the bus stop. I trailed behind the group, slowing my descent down the hill. I glanced to my right, the sun glaring on my exposed face. The clouds pulled apart like graham crackers and marshmallow, a brilliant light shone through to the floor. I took a snapshot, tried to capture the magnificence.
There was a note on the screen:
You Left Me At The Playground.
The tour started moving, making way up the hill. I dismounted the seesaw, imagining it was a horse; a longing pain in my chest. I scooped up my black backpack, trudged through nettle as tall as I am, cursing under my breath for the itches on my ankles and the narrowness of the road. I followed trustingly, like a donkey led down the Grand Canyon.
Moans gurgled in my throat, I didn't want to take this journey. One foot pressed on leading the other. one, two, one, two. Ahead a chestnut poked her head over the gray stone. My aches melted, the grunts subsided. I stroked her face, looked in her marble eyes like a traveler sees water in the dessert. I pressed on to Sylvia's grave, upset by the gaudiness of knick-knacks left for her. She deserved more.
Streams of burnt orange tore through the clouds, time to head back to the bus stop. I trailed behind the group, slowing my descent down the hill. I glanced to my right, the sun glaring on my exposed face. The clouds pulled apart like graham crackers and marshmallow, a brilliant light shone through to the floor. I took a snapshot, tried to capture the magnificence.
There was a note on the screen:
You Left Me At The Playground.
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