A woman passes through each season of life Once, there was a little girl with two pigtails. She was a joy to all those around her and was constantly happy. Her backpack was a bright red, and her shoes were a colorful pink. Her small feet carried her across a new street, and she skipped and skipped her way toward a woman who wore a placid face and held a silence that even the innocent little girl could hear. The woman didn’t look up, but instead kept on raking those beautiful autumn leaves. The girl passed by with the smallest glance at the strange woman and then skipped all the way to her first day of school. At school, she learned and learned and played and played. The girl lost her pigtails and then her ponytail and finally had her hair down straight. She was one moment the happiest person on Earth, then the next moment crying through school. She was in a constant state of tears and laughter and much-regretted idleness. She stopped her skipping after a year and started running after three, for bullies ran fast. But in time, she slowed down to a walk. Her red backpack was lost and so was her green one, and at some point she had none. And finally, after all that change, winter came, and she went down the street again. She was nervously walking, tripping over her heels and carrying a stack of books. She headed toward the old woman whose face remained unchanged except for her hair, which had become grey. By then, the woman walked with a limp but still kept on shoveling and shoveling snow. Her tired rags were dirty and smelled of a stink that made the girl remember a much darker time. However, the grown child had only a whispered thought of the sad woman. She instead looked toward the future. In college, she learned and studied some more. The grown child became a young adult, and then a lady. She learned the rules and the laws of the world. After some time, she understood unfairness and started growing attached to the independence of adulthood. Her days were filled with another round of battles. She was shunned, hated, loved, disliked, envied, and many more things. Her hair was dyed a bold red, and her bitten nails suddenly became shiny and covered with a new layer of polish. She tripped less and developed a gracefulness. But, once more, the seasons changed, and spring came. The dead branches littered the ground and the new blossoming of flowers could be seen everywhere. The birds sang a lovely song, and the sun shone over the land once again. The girl, now a woman, headed toward her new job and walked with solemn dignity. The street was silent except for the clicking of the elegant heels that the young woman wore and the shuffling of worn shoes. The owner of those shoes was the sad woman who was picking up large fallen branches. She had finally become old. Her hair was turning white and wrinkles had appeared on her skin. Her limp had turned into a stumble, but she kept working with a stubborn resilience. The young woman didn’t even look at the old woman anymore. She kept her head held high and walked onward. The young woman worked and worked and learned manners too. She made some new friends who took her a long way, and she grew a bit more. The woman’s heels turned to boots, then to sandals. Her evenings, once filled with parties, eventually became dates. The woman soon turned into a bride and then to a wife and, at some point, a mother. And after all that growing, it turned to summer, and the mother strolled onto the same street. The sky was a bright blue, and the birds were singing a happy song. The mother took slow, deliberate steps with her stomach the size of a balloon. Her hair was curled and had lost its red tint. Her face was full of happiness and a glow surrounded her. But the glow did not reach the old woman who still stood on the street. She was slowly trimming the bushes. The old woman had shrunk to the size of a child. Her face drooped, but her eyes still held defiance in them. However, the new mother saw nothing and continued walking toward motherhood. The days turned into nights and then into days. The mother was filled with worry and happiness and sadness. Her baby cried and cried, and she wept and wept—for one moment the baby grew too fast, and the next the baby seemed to not grow at all. The mother always gave up each evening and started anew each morning. The baby turned into a girl, then a woman, then a wife and finally a mother herself. The new grandmother looked upon her children and grandchildren and thought about how far she had come. Her hair turned grey and her eyes dull. And slowly, again, the winds blew by, and the weather became cold, for fall had come once more. Leaves fell softly onto the ground. The grandmother walked with a deliberate ease through the wild weeds and puddles. The bushes and trees were overgrown, and leaves littered the ground. Near the side of the road lay an old wooden rake. A rake that she knew was part of some long-forgotten memory. There was a sad song in the wind. A song that told a story. The grandmother suddenly stopped and listened. She didn’t hear words, but instead, a soft lament that swayed the trees. She looked around and sought for the reason to mourn. There was no one around. No funeral was arranged, no memory, nothing of the woman remained except the voice in the wind. The grandmother stared at the empty road and realized who was missing. Her heart shattered and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wept on the
Sense-of-Place
A World Without Color
In a colorless world full of trash, the writer dreams of a lush, vivid rainforest Dear Diary, I woke up again yesterday and saw the hammering rain pouring harshly down on my small little house. It was the worst sight I had seen in years! It was quite a boring sight, though I’m used to it, so I wasn’t that surprised. I had another amazing dream. I dreamt that I was in a forest with tropical trees and exotic flowers. There was spikey grass and even tigers! I guess it didn’t come true. I had to try to tidy the rubbish by sifting and sorting, burning and burying, but it didn’t work. However, while I was sorting the rubbish, something caught my eye. It was a tiny tin flower! Suddenly an idea planted itself in my head. The idea sprouted and grew roots. Day after day, the idea got bigger. While I was feeding on the rubbish, a forest emerged under my hand. It was not the forest of my dreams, but it was a forest just the same. In the forest, there were tigers, toucans, tree frogs, and even butterflies! I was still a bit disappointed because it was a very dull forest with no color at all. As I walked through the forest, my heart was aching with emptiness. Elyse Bambrough, 7Bristol, UK Sage Millen, 11Vancouver, Canada
Grateful
A simple bike ride to school occasions a complex meditation on life 7:35 a.m. My mind is still heavy with sleep, barely woken up by my hurried breakfast. It only allows one thought in at a time, so two words are looping through my head: get ready. I take a last gulp of lukewarm tea and place my lunchbox in the basket on the side of my bicycle. I try to get my thoughts in order as I strap on my helmet and roll the bike out of the garage. I tie my sneakers, the laces chafing my cold fingers, and pull two layers of warm mittens onto my hands. I pause for a moment to look back at my house. It is the smallest on my street, painted a dull brown. I can see warm golden light flooding the rooms inside, illuminating the furniture, each piece of which seems to be having a friendly conversation with the others. I glimpse my younger brother’s face inside. He is smiling. The contented spirit of the house seems to reach out of the dusty windows and embrace me. I carry an image of it in my heart. My talisman. 7:40 a.m. I pedal out onto the street. The crisp, chilly morning air wraps around me like a cloak, blowing the wisps of sleepiness out of my hair and eyelids. Somewhere, I can hear the cheerful fluting of an early songbird. I blink and lean forward in the saddle. I am ready. 7:43 a.m. After a couple of minutes, I take a sudden turn onto the main road. The change hits me like a slap—the formerly empty streets are filled with rushing, honking cars, the peace of the morning cut to pieces with sound and motion. But both environments are so familiar to me that I take a strange pleasure in the new leg of my route. 7:46 a.m. My bike grinds to a halt in front of the main intersection. It is filled with early morning traffic. I walk my bike to a pole and press the walk button, then lean back in my seat to wait. Gradually, a crowd of children appears behind me, filling up the sidewalk. They wait on their bikes, some chattering quietly. Others sit and stare ahead, breathless from their ride. They all have the same look in their eyes—that expression of blank determination. It is the only expression to have when the cold is biting through two layers of mittens and numbing your cheeks. Scarves and conversation are the thawing agents for those kids. The thing that thaws my fingers is the thought that there are some things that are gifted only to me—the sight of my tiny, welcoming house, my muddy-but-strong Goodwill sneakers, the texture of tattered cloth in my fingers. That knowledge is as much a part of my body as my arms and legs, throbbing slowly in the chilly air. I can see this knowledge flickering in their determined-yet-carefree faces, but it is more than a flicker in me. It is a flame, keeping me alive. 7:48 a.m. The cars are facing each other like bulls rearing for a fight, engines growling softly. It takes me a moment to register the faint, ghostly white form flickering ahead: the walk sign. A second later, the group of bicycles is whooshing across the road. We are like a single form, the colors of the bikes blending and blurring together as we ride. We reach the sidewalk and disperse like colorful butterflies, many remaining in tight groups of two or three. I ride alone, as always, savoring the scent of the apple blossoms, which have fallen over the bike path like a carpet. 7:55 a.m. I take a turn into a wooded, shady trail. The trees arch over me. Red and gold ivy climbs over the walls on either side of me, spiraling and curling over the peeling paint. With satisfaction, I think about how the trail will look coming home from school: sun-dappled, the green-gold shadows dancing on the path before me. Only a few riders accompany me on this leg of the route, going and coming: I will enjoy the beauty alone. That is the moment I look forward to all day, the thought sustaining me through seven hours of misery and happiness, dappling the hallways of the school like sunlight on the road. I gaze at the picturesque sight with the same bittersweet pleasure I feel every morning 8:00 a.m. The few bikers remaining with me turn right at the intersection, their flashy wheels glinting as they move. I pause and watch them for a few moments. The road ahead of them is smooth and nearly shiny, the spotless streets lined with green ginkgo trees, immaculate bushes, and sprawling, pastel-hued houses. Their colorful coats dot the landscape, and I gaze at the picturesque sight with the same bittersweet pleasure I feel every morning. Finally, I take a quick glance at my cracked pink watch and ride precipitately in the opposite direction. 8:02 a.m. I ride in the middle of the road—there is no bike path here. The path becomes increasingly cracked and dusty as I move forward, and I watch the ground carefully, avoiding a fall. The houses, packed together like sardines, line the streets. The idea crosses my mind, as it does every morning, that the grimy-yet-sunshiny yellow walls look suffocated, like caged tigers. But the simile, however impressive, does not fit. The houses are more like the stray cats that sometimes sleep on the road in this part of town— bedraggled and tired, yet strangely contented. The thought leaves my mind as quickly as it came, and I wave to an acquaintance standing on her doorstep. The time to linger and dream is gone. 8:05 a.m. My school, from the outside, looks much like the identical yellow houses that captured my imagination a few streets down. It has a bed of flowers growing in the front. Just daisies, nothing more—yet
