At Seven

It was in the winter months, when I was only seven. Sitting on the school bus going home, waiting for toys and afternoon TV. It was cold, a bitter cold, textbook. I would take off my hat, take off my gloves, put them in my pockets or my backpack. I knew my ears would get tender, my cheeks would get red, my fingers tiny icicles. I would throw in a shiver from time to time, on that walk from the bus stop to my front door, just in case my mother inside was watching. Sometimes I'd even unzip my coat, to really layer it on. I would walk in frigid, frozen, Mom would see I was in desperate need of hot chocolate and peanut butter saltine sandwiches. That's what all of this was for. This delicately-thought-out plan. I couldn't ask. For some reason, at seven, I couldn't ask for hot chocolate.

And that's all you need to know about me.