“Emma!” my mother’s voice faintly called, with sounds of other children, parents, and dogs in the background. Her voice sounded unusually twangy from calling straight onto the plastic tunnels. I sat inside, giggling, banging on the wall. It had begun to snow; I teased her, knowing that she wanted me to come out and put on a jacket. But I refused. “Emma, c’mon, sweetheart!” she laughed; she recognized the stubborn and jovial attitude I’ve shown since I was born, or so she had told me, and responded with it. “You know… I could leave you since you love it so much here.”

Like any five-year-old, I was distracted by the sun piercing through the bright orange and blue tunnel. I looked at my arms and legs, then said, “Look, Mommy! My skin is orange and blue!”

“Well, why don’t you come out here so I can see?” she slyly urged.

For a moment, I sat and considered it. I made my way out the orange and blue tunnel into a sea of bright green before I saw the sky.