The door to my kindergarten class was closed. I, a small girl child of five, looked even smaller as I faced the door. My index finger traced the swirling wood patterns that adorned it. Mesmerized, I pleaded to its uncaring surface.
“Please, please, please open.” I whispered.
In the background the soft hum of children and their teachers filled the hallway. The doors were open in the other classrooms. But mine-
Like a malevolent eye, the bright burnished doorknob stared at me. I was late. If only Mom hadn’t made me eat that last bit of soggy, messy cream of wheat. I had stared at it for hours before finally putting that last spoonful in my mouth. I hated the texture that cereal as it slid down my throat. Now I was late.
The rest is here.