LOST IN THE CITY
The air was cold and the trees were bare.
Snow was on the ground, untouched and
white. I remember the trail of footsteps
that I left as I was heading alone with
my grandmother behind me. I was
wearing a pink North Face coat, warm
pants with leggings underneath, and
my matching gloves, scarf, and hat. We
were on our way to Rockefeller Center to
take pictures in front of the tree and go
ice-skating afterward. I usually did most
of the skating. She always just watched
and laughed every time I lost my balance.
I asked her every twenty
minutes, “Are we there yet?” And she
would say “Almost.” I knew we weren’t
close; she just wanted me to stop asking.
The train ride was about an hour and we
were jolted by the crowd. The city was
packed with tourists. They took pictures
of everything: buildings, street signs,
trees. When we arrived, we went to the
tree. Every year, my grandmother asked
a stranger to take our picture together.
Then we would each take one of each
other alone. As I was walking to the tree
to get my picture taken by my grandHPAC YOUNG WRITERS REVIEW
mother, the area became even more
crowded. I turned around and all I saw
were strangers. Everyone was dressed
alike—coats, boots, and hats. I started
to call out my grandmother’s name,
“Isabel… Isabel?” But I got no response. I
was a ten-year-old girl lost in Manhattan.
Could it get any worse?
It did. A half hour went by, and
there was no sign of her. It started to
get colder, and I started to get scared.
We used cameras to take our photos.
Neither of us had a phone. I described
my grandmother to many people: “She’s
five-foot-five, grey coat, black hat—
an adorable old lady,” I had basically
described every old woman on the entire
planet. The ice-skating rink was not too
far so I decided to walk over in case my
grandmother had been waiting for me.