The World from a Child ’ s Point of View
By Mica S ( 8th Grade )
The door slammed shut , rattling the walls of the small , crumbling room that I lived in . The paint was peeling off of the walls , revealing the hard brick underneath . A draft swept through the room , a whirlwind of curiosity picking up dust on its way and inspecting every part of the room , gathering it in the corners in little dunes . I sat alone on my bed watching the broken old clock on the wall , its hands stationary . The sun seeped in through the old tattered curtains hung on the small window , one of its beams hitting the broken floorboard by the bed , it ’ s nails sticking out and rusty . Unused books sat on the shelf , still waiting to be opened and read . Their covers untouched with a thin film of cobwebs in the corners . I just sat and watched . A light hung on the ceiling with fragments of it missing , sharp jagged edges sticking out like the jaws of hungry bear . A musty scent engulfed the entirety of the room , with hints of useless citrus cleaner . My old pendant hung on the torn lampshade , twinkling in the sun streaming in through the window . Green and blue specks twinkled in the sea of black of the glass gem in the center . Old faded metal curled around it with chips and dents from past owners , with patches where its gold paint chipped off . Unlike the cliche of other stories , this necklace is not priceless or unique . No . It is just something I found on the sidewalk near the grass when I was walking by .
I watched as people stepped around it , not bothering to pick it up . I waited until there was a break in the waves of people , hustling to where they needed to be next , like they were the most important in the world and must have their way . All of them wearing their fancy coats and suits and dresses with their noses in the air . I never really understood grownups much . All of them saying “ Oh I ’ m too busy to play ” or “ Go away . I have a lot of work to do ”. If they just remembered what it was like in our shoes , always having to look up at their faces , our only view of their legs and expensive fancy shoes . All of them headed into tall buildings to do the same thing at the same desks . For them , that is what they wanted to do as far as they remember . But something tells me that as children , the felt the same way as me . But then there is my uncle who is special . He wears his old worn out coat each brisk morning along with his tattered shoes as he walks the block to my house . He tells me stories of how the world worked before there was all of this technology . They are about children just like me , who wander through the world , confused by the whirlwind of each businessperson . Some are about the other planets in the solar system or about the parched deserts and oceans bursting with life . I always dreamt of traveling far away from this place and hiding in the paintings that my uncle ' s stories create . The only thing that I want when I am a grown adult is to remember . I want to remember the chalk drawings or the notebooks full of pictures . I want to hold on to the memories the enchanting stories of my uncle and how he smelled of worn leather and peppermint or the sunny daydreams and gazing at the stars in the middle of the night . I just want to remember these little things that gave my life so much color , for if the memories slip away , my life will turn to black and white .
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