The frills on my pink dress flutter in the Autumn wind, a first.
Planes take off behind me, mom and dad push the giant cart of suitcases.
I slide my eyes searching for anything I know. Nothing.
It is foreign here. Silent.
Where are the people?
The clean chill air glides into my lungs, foreignly fresh.
The parking lot is nothing like the pink and green wonder land I pictured when mom said, “the land of milk and honey.”
It is gray. All around gray. Sky. Earth. Cars. Gray.
I flutter my eyes searching for the bright colors,
the pungent scents,
the cacophony of noise that fills every cell of my skin.
For home.
It sits heavy, a ten year old adult realization.
It is foreign here.
I am foreign here.
I am forever not home in this all gray space.
