My Cardboard Balcony

The Freest by Belinda Roddie Three children bounce up and down happily in the bus seats, blue cushions and red faces, big smiles and small fingers, groping at the cords that signal for the next requested stop. Their mother is tired, frustrated. She grips the stroller with whitened knuckles, looking out the window once in a while to see if they are any closer - any closer - to seeing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Or, more accurately, a pot of something savory on the edge of a hot stove. One of the children, with dark curls and bright eyes, screams, "Monkey! Monkey!" over and over again, and perhaps I should be annoyed, but instead, I smile as I prop my poetry journal against my knee, remembering the time when I was their age and had no filter. I said words, words, words, what was on my mind, in an endless stream of youthful consciousness, all excitement when it came to the world around me, without worrying that someone, in the corn

"I want a toy truck and a toy brontosaurus!" cried the little girl, pointing at the rows of goodies. Her father chuckled and squeezed her hand. "Don't be greedy, Nadia," he grinned. "One or the other." This was a far better response than I would have imagined. Most mothers or fathers seemed to discourage their daughters from getting anything that wasn't pink or sparkly. Today, however, was different, and the girl's defense was even more enjoyable to hear from my position behind the counter. "But, Daddy," she argued, "if I don't get the brontosaurus, then who's going to drive the truck?"