July 27, 2020:
Soft blankets spread patchwork over a floor of padded mats. Our rectangles are small, barely bigger than baby size. We curl on them, little private islands, isolated in sleep, although considered as a whole the exercise is communal.
A milestone! I'm old enough now to go to kindergarten. School means: adventure, friends, growth. School is a measure: now I'm kindergarten big.
There are no books. Reading is for bigger kids. That'll be next year. Here we paint. I learn to associate color with the pleasantly biting smell of tempera. We cut paper with very dull scissors then assemble the colored pieces with paste. We sing songs, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. We eat apples, and drink milk from small paper cartons.
Every afternoon we nap, a practice I resent because it brands us little, still almost toddlers, while I'm anxious to be big.