Crossing over

“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.

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