In July 2001, I went to India with a group from my high school. We held babies at one of Mother Teresa’s orphanages and played with kids in rural towns. I hesitate to bring up the trip because I’m embarrassed.
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In kindergarten, I must have drawn 100 rainbows. The cherry marker came first with an upside down U. Then orange and lemon and mint. Each line the width of the marker tip. Sometimes I puffed blueberry clouds around the rainbow’s ends. Sometimes I sheltered my stick family under its arch.
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Sometimes words bubble up in my chest. There’s a tingle. A pressure. Incomprehensible images flash across my eyes. Made more of feeling than light. And sometimes it’s hard to decipher what the words are trying to say.
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