There’s a smell of apples in the air. The candied kind, with nuts stuck to them. It’s coming from the carnival at Holy Family, the Catholic school at the end of my street. This spot on my front steps earns me a good view of the parade of people leaving the festival. Families and friends are marching in tight clusters with armfuls of leftover cotton candy, popcorn, stuffed animals, and bags of goldfish.
I naturally assume their liveliness and excitement as they pass by me. The buzz of their joyfulness makes me dream a wish. I want those people to all go home and do great things for the world. Because the world needs those kinds of people; hearty people who do great things, big things with their hearts, for the world.
I work best on my drawings here on the cracked concrete steps because being here near the old tree trunks and under their leafy limbs makes me feel protected from the heavy hand of the world. This sacred spot is my only safe container.
It would be nice to draw a picture that would show my parents what goes on inside my head so they would stop asking what’s wrong with me—why I’m so deep, so careful. But it would take mountains of paper and rivers of paint to draw that picture. So instead I’ll draw simple pictures on letter-sized paper, like the ones my older sister Toni makes, with princesses and fashions and trees with red apples.
Quiet times like this give me a break from having to feel everyone else’s feelings. It’s better to feel my own. When I do, a strong knowing comes inside me that I have big things to do with my heart for the world, too. The idea of it makes me shiver and beam. I rake the stair step below me with my fingers to clasp an orange heart shaped leaf, which I know is a clue telling me yes, keep believing in such good things; you’re on the right track.
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