Sticking With the Schuylers (28)
I want to thank everyone-the influx of new readers as well as my lovelies that have been here since the beginning. Your kindness has made my heart swell, I really feel like I don’t deserve the wonderful, thought out comments and questions you guys have had but I’m thankful for them either way. You’re all truly wonderful. Thank you so much. You breathe a life into this series I never thought possible.
I learned at a very young age that being quiet kept you alive.
It was a game; a twisted version of hide-and-never-be-found that had been ingrained in all of our minds, in our chemistry. We grew up wishing so badly for a way out that we never got a chance to be kids; to feel the unfiltered release of a day playing outside without worry, or just being with each other.
Children in New York City are different; they walk in neat lines holding on to ropes, a teacher in front and one in back, exploring their surroundings under careful guidance and loving stares. They hop along through the puddles of slushed snow in their designer boots and little yellow raincoats, no care in the world given to anything other than who they would be sitting next to at lunchtime. I watch them sometimes, in transit from a small city field-trip to the safety of their classrooms, wondering what life would have been like had I grown up here. I wonder what Eliza’s life had been like. I try to picture her as wide-eyed, pigtailed preschooler. She fits right into the imagery, taking place of a rope-holding child sliding on the sidewalk in front of me, navy plaid skirt, knee-highs, and all. My eyes move to the space behind pseudo-Eliza, attempting to conjure up an image of myself. There are pieces I am able to see; a longer, curlier hair here, an incessant puddle splasher there.
However hard I try, I am unable to fit myself into their mold.
Now, these things are becoming painstakingly obvious.