In this memory, I’m nine years old. Every morning, I walk to the school on my own, passing by groups of first graders, some kids from other grades, and some familiar faces from my own grade.
There is a cow bell attached to my school bag. It was a souvenir from my kindergarten classmate when she went to visit a farm. Every step I take, the loud sound of the bell echoes on the street, notifying my presence to everybody who knows me.
I like walking on my own because I don’t have to talk to anybody and I can get lost in my own imagination. Today, just like any other day, I’m marching my way to school, passing many faces, picturing myself as the heroin of the story I’m concocting in my head.
Shortly after I arrive in my classroom, my friend rushes me.
“Maiko, didn’t you hear us?” She is laughing as she puts down her bag. “We saw you walking ahead of us and called your name. But you kept walking. You were walking so fast that we couldn’t catch up with you! Soon, you were gone.”
I’m puzzled that I didn’t here anybody calling me on my way here. But the picture she describes is funny, so I start laughing, too.