Days of 2010 by Kori Bower *(21, Ohio)

Oh, early mornings of twenty-ten, what must she 
have looked like to you? Outside every day at 
five-thirty AM, she’d stand on the concrete slab 
bridging the creek that cut through their driveway 
and wait alone in the dark for the bus to arrive.

---

She’d always watch the sky, fascinated, as the moon 
sunk down and the sun crept up. They would hover
next to each other for just a few minutes each morning 
before an array of messy pink-orange strokes would
sweep in, hiding the end of the transition.

Illuminated by equal parts sun and moonlight, 
she’d stand with her messy hair and often mismatched 
clothes. She must have looked like one of the creatures 
from her imagination, the ones she would talk to when 
she got lonely: about the sky, her outfits, the books 
she was reading, and other little things that changed 
each day. They were always there to listen. 

She was too tall, if only barely, to be an animal; and 
she didn’t look like a bear, you would give her that. 
She would never grow tall enough to be mistaken for 
an adult -- and what would any sane person be doing, 
standing in their driveway at that hour? 

A child was the only reasonable answer, but what 
kind of parent would make their kid take the bus if 
they had to be up, dressed, and outside in a host of 
conditions at five-thirty in the morning?

She was never meant to be alone, to look more like a 
wraith that crawled out from under the bridge than 
the child she was. Yet it was certainly what many 
thought when they saw her. 

To be fair, her parents did the best they could. From 
your view, twenty-ten, you thought you were great. 
You were so adult, doing it all on your own; bothering 
no one you knew had more important priorities. Dad 
needed his sleep, and you wouldn’t get your phone 
to contact Mom at the hospital until your birthday that 
year; when even you had finally begun to realize 
that doing it all on your own wasn’t the best idea.