Woke up this morning with a memory of my 6-year-old self, triggered by the crisp San Francisco morning:
I remember waking up around 7 a.m., always like clockwork because my father had to leave for work. Before I got out of bed, I checked the secret hole I had carved into my mattress, a private vault where I stashed candy and snacks. The inventory was always intact because I never ate anything. I don’t know why my anxiety triggered that ritual, but somehow, it made the world make sense.
Next came my camel brown wedge knee-high boots—their hollow soles always seemed to collect little rocks and gravel like souvenirs from my small wanderings around the school blacktop. I would pair them with warm leggings, a mini skirt, and a simple top—a child’s version of armor for the unpredictable world of elementary school. Outside my window, the world was foggy and wet, the street blurred under sheets of drizzle and shades of blue and dark green. My room itself is hard to fully remember. I only recall…
