Sunny

16

On the first day of first grade,
my mother had to hold me by my hair
to keep me from turning cartwheels
in our two-room apartment.

But braiding my hair didn’t do me-- nor the vase of lilies
any good,
for as soon as she let go,
like a slingshot,
I cartwheeled off again.

And that was how I arrived in Mrs. Valentine’s classroom--
racing towards a new best friend,
giddiness and zeal overflowing on
my bruised knees and wayward hair.

“Hi!” I chirped, to my new best friend,
while spastically waving my little hand.
And Tommy Griskin,
he waved back,
and chattered a few phrases.

And my hand froze in mid-air,
and dropped
like a lead balloon,
as suddenly, not with a gradual dawn,
but with all the force
that desecrated the Tower of Babel,
I realized,
not one of my new best friends
spoke Chinese.