I’m eight. The most exciting thing about waking up in the morning for me is to watch the things around the glorious buildings of the school and the playground. The main building is very tall and it had Western architecture. The sight of the building would always make me feel eerie for some reason which I do not understand to explain. I also like to watch the the other kids get dropped from a Mercedes, a Honda, an Audi etc. Everyone was well disciplined and well clad. The shoes were finely polished and shiny black. Not a speck of dust I suppose. Some kids had school bags and bottles of the Avengers series. They looked really cool. Iron man is my favorite. It feels so good to watch all that. Meantime, what feels bad is the fact that I’m not one of them. I’m not a part of it.
I belong to the small school across the lane. Daily, I’d walk past the big school to reach mine. Hardly anyone would notice our school. I instantly look at my bare feet when I see the polished shoes worn by the rich kids. It happens like a reflex. But sometimes I’d wear my flip flops to school for special occasions. I’m afraid of the pair being worn out and I’m afraid to request for a new pair from mom. I usually won’t tuck my shirt in. Nobody at school cares either. My bag is pretty ragged but my mom has done her best with her sewing skills. I made her attach little nuts and bolts on my bag. That’s my own version of an Iron man bag. I often ask mom whether I can get one of those Avengers bags some day. She says, “ When your dad comes back from his long trip.” She tells me he started his long trip when I was born. I think it must be a tiring trip of eight years. Then I asked my mom whether he went on the trip by a car and whether I can be dropped off to school in that same car when he comes back. She hugged me tight.
