First day of school

I remember watching the evil red lights from the electronic clock above the television set. The minutes kept on running away from me the more I wished that time would stop. I thought if I hide the time behind my mother’s embroidered handkerchief the clock couldn’t remind her that it was time for me to start kindergarten. They both knew, my mom and dad, that it would be hard for me. I was more attached to my mother’s side then her own hip. When she was too busy to have me by her side I would hide in her coat and pretend she was there. Now there was no where to pretend.

     My parents and I had visited the school the previous week, and it reminded me of a doctor’s office. The floor was this unfriendly dull white that made me dizzy if I starred at my feet while walking. The florescent lights made me feel like I was watching an annoying commercial. The circle area was covered with rough blue carpet that had ugly grey designs on it. The teacher was nice, so I said hello but stayed clinging to my mother’s side. My father took a look at the list of my classmates and said with a forced joy, “Look, Elisa there’s another girl with your name in the class.” I thought maybe she was my twin that my mother had lost at birth and this thought soothed my anxiety of being alone for the rest of the week.

     I watched my mother intently as she rummaged her room for her keys and had my fingers crossed that I was staying home. “Elisa, let’s go.” “Oh no,” I thought in my head, “the handkerchief didn’t work, maybe I’ll think of something better tomorrow.”