Admiring the honeysuckle bushes with my cousins and dancing to the salsa music booming next door. Roller skating to the queens library and licking the melted Carvel ice cream off of my tiny hands. Singing on stage in Central Park for the first time. Climbing the top of the metal globe in Corona Park. These are the moments that defined my halcyon days. The moments that taught me anything is possible. These days were made up of firsts and millionths. The first time eating lasagna and the millionth time eating a shish kabob on 42nd street. The first time I gave the homeless guy on the subway a dollar bill to the millionth time I gave out dollar bills to each homeless person I passed. The first time seeing Lunas scars to the millionth time I waited for her owners to let her out so I could feed her. The first time I touched the keys on a piano and the millionth time when I’d created my own song based on what I knew about life at seven years old.
How could anyone ever want to leave this world I asked …show more content…
The small room is grey. The chairs are plastic and tinted a deadly shade of forest green. All of visitors today are women. Each one looking worn out and I realize many of them are here to see their husbands or their sons. I notice I am the only teenager in the room and my level of discomfort rises. I look at my mother next to me and notice her glossy eyes from late night crying. I notice her pale hands and the purple moon's under her eyes. I know what Hell is like and so does every other woman in this room.
My trips back to New York are my canopy. They are what allow me to grow. I don’t enjoy empty sidewalks or graffiti that isn’t intended to be art. I pass by the brooklyn bridge and pretend I am going to walk across it. I visit the bodega on 88th ave and order one of the jumbo buttery croissants I grew up eating. I pretend that nothing has changed and I call this place
How could anyone ever want to leave this world I asked …show more content…
The small room is grey. The chairs are plastic and tinted a deadly shade of forest green. All of visitors today are women. Each one looking worn out and I realize many of them are here to see their husbands or their sons. I notice I am the only teenager in the room and my level of discomfort rises. I look at my mother next to me and notice her glossy eyes from late night crying. I notice her pale hands and the purple moon's under her eyes. I know what Hell is like and so does every other woman in this room.
My trips back to New York are my canopy. They are what allow me to grow. I don’t enjoy empty sidewalks or graffiti that isn’t intended to be art. I pass by the brooklyn bridge and pretend I am going to walk across it. I visit the bodega on 88th ave and order one of the jumbo buttery croissants I grew up eating. I pretend that nothing has changed and I call this place