<\/p>\n
One, two, three, four pennies in my hand. I count them over and over with my fingers as we walk. Running my fingers over each edge, I feel around the bump of Lincoln and the flat ridges of his memorial on the reverse. Mom said numbers like that were unlucky. I would say that\u2019s just how many ended up in my pocket. I felt around the cheap, sleek lining. There was a toy-box mess in there, copper mixed with unopened jelly packets from the diner and crumpled tissues. I had a little coin-purse below it all, but the metal ridges bruised my pink-fingertips when I tried to pry its cheap clasp open.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The sun\u2019s moved from the side of the sky to an orange haze by the time I make my way down the road. 1.9 miles. I only know because Mom was telling the phone that that\u2019s practically two. They said no, and she said that was ridiculous and I should get a bus. But it\u2019s not two. It\u2019s only 1.9 miles. The walk makes me think, and now I\u2019m thinking of how that\u2019s like shower-thoughts. I asked Mom what that meant once, and she simply answered that people think better there. I wasn\u2019t sure I was thinking better, just louder.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The houses are the same as any other day, but I go through every memory in a film-scroll. The houses are gray-paneled and red-bricked except for the one garden-adorned condo here and there and the hand-painted orange door of the house by the park. The house across from the gas station could be mistaken for a Party City ad, with how many minor holidays they seemed to parade. Today, on a long oak pole thin enough to be snapped by an ambitious wind, I saw, for one, the man that lived there. He was old with a natural frown but kind eyes, standing at the top of the pole. He didn\u2019t look down at the little people passing by; instead, his eyes were fixated on the rain cloud prop he was swapping for a beautiful hand-painted sunflower. The petals spiraled outward like a great campfire, stern like a lion.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I smiled but never stopped walking.<\/span><\/p>\n The next crosswalk was the trickiest. They refused to put a traffic light or a stop sign or anything that made sense at that gas-station intersection. Mom told me to send the city a petition, but then I\u2019d need ten thousand signatures in thirty days, and there were only a measly 30 people, even in my entire class. I told her that, too, and she said that if I didn\u2019t solve my own problems, I didn\u2019t have a right to complain. I figure I owe it to myself not to complain inwardly, either. Instead, I take a long blink. For the slightest moment, I can only see the sun through the red glow of my eyelids. There is no other light, no other sound.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I walk to the very edge of the curb and stand, watching the cars whoosh past, paying no mind to me, darting in every direction like hamsters let loose in a maze.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I look through the rush and nod at the gas prices. $3.29. I have no idea if that\u2019s good or bad, but I decide to tell my friends that cars are so expensive to drive now. I take a step into the road. A few cars run through before a big slate car stops for me, and then the car on the other side is forced to stop, and the cars that were going to turn have to stop too, and everyone is staring at me through their shiny-clear windshields like aquarium fish, so I wave and say thank you to all of them as I run through, though I know they can\u2019t hear me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I count the pennies in my pocket again. One, two, three, four. As always. I know I\u2019ll forget about them before I\u2019ll spend them, but I don\u2019t want to lose them all the same.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I look to the horizon. I\u2019ve walked far enough to make it to the sunset. The sun is a bright ball floating in the endless, still ocean of sky. I walk toward the orange haze. I know I\u2019m not supposed to stare right at it, but the ground is littered with the fleshy red spring-dropping that falls from all the trees every year, and the houses are the same as always. I decide to look straight ahead. When I blink, I can still see a bright remnant, a tattoo on my eyelids. I keep them closed for a moment, taking in the relief of the imprinted darkness. I feel the soft wind brushing my cheek like a warm hand. I feel the soft cracks in the sidewalk where the grass pokes through. I hear the gentlest rustle of leaves and the strongest, rhythmic heartbeat-pounding of a soaring birds\u2019 wings.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I open my eyes, and everything fades to the background.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I watch my steps on the ground. I keep a few steps in every sidewalk-box. I keep a few thoughts in the back of my mind. I have homework to do and my brother to watch and a book or two to read. I have to feed the cats and clean my room. I\u2019ll sneak the DS up, because it\u2019s not like my parents will be home anyway, and oh, I have to practice my piano too. I have swim practice at seven, so I have to remember to get food before then, or I\u2019ll be really hungry after. I get bitter when I\u2019m angry, and I don\u2019t want to fight with this week\u2019s care.com driver.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I have a selfish thought. I don\u2019t really want Mom to wake me up at night when she\u2019s ready for bed, either. I don\u2019t want to hear her say goodnight at 12 or good-morning at 6. I want to sit with my cat and read in the little pocket of light behind the glass door. I want to take a walk through the little path in the woods and listen to the mp3 with per-approved Taylor Swift Mom bought me. I want to sleep without thinking of the million daunting elementary-school shadows in the corner. I stop, realizing I\u2019m holding my breath. I let out a shaky sigh and stop walking to regain my breath. I\u2019m not doing myself any good, thinking about things like this. I know that, but there\u2019s also some comfort in letting my troubles pile up, gathering like a tsunami, great waves slamming the dam over and over.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I take a breath in, turning the pennies over as I inhale, counting: <\/span>one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight<\/span><\/i>, and a longer exhale, because I read somewhere that helped: <\/span>one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight\u2026nine\u2026ten\u2026 <\/span><\/i>I can feel my heart pound all the way up to my ears, but I keep walking. I shove every thought back to the corner.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n At the middle of the road yet the end of my path, the sun\u2019s finally behind me. The sky is a bright pink. My brother\u2019s teacher said it\u2019s pollution. I don\u2019t know any better. I just know it\u2019s pretty. If I had a phone, I\u2019d take a picture. Mom would let me borrow hers sometimes, but the blurry image was never the same.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I make my way over. My daily ritual.<\/span><\/p>\n I kneel in the grass and listen to the humming. The pond\u2019s the same as always, but I\u2019m still losing myself to the ripples severing my reflection. I hear the croaks. The same buzzes that screech symphonies every morning. The morning insect-chirping and bird-songs would sing to me that winter was ending, but the frogs would tell me spring was here.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I toss a penny through the lake-film, like it\u2019s a wishing well. One, two, three pennies in my hand. I count them over and over with my fingers as I squeeze my eyes shut.<\/span><\/p>\n I\u2019m not supposed to tell people what my wishes are. I\u2019m so hung up on that birthday fact that I think I forgot to tell myself. I let the coin sink to the dirt and tangle my hair with the grass. The ground\u2019s cold, but I feel blanketed by the wind.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I only have a short walk back home, a skip right across the street. I think about the path to the front door. It was probably only a hundred steps from here; yet, though the thought of that walk made my heart drop, flipping my stomach upside-down with its marionette-strings, the movement–birds-soaring, fish-wriggling–of the pond is so still. The soft buzzes are so quiet. The itch of grass against my scalp is comforting, and the blanket of wind feels like home.<\/span><\/p>\n