M̶y̶ ̶L̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶R̶e̶d̶ ̶W̶a̶g̶o̶n̶

6 0 0
                                    

My little red wagon. Creaking with each spin of the wheel down the bumpy road in my neighborhood. The rusting handle and the old tub carrying my old stuffed animals. And the shaking jolt of the rocks beneath my feet stumbled under the little wagon.

My little red wagon supported my dreams and fears as I pushed it down my foreign home road. The Japanese neighbors wondering why an American would live in their village and are walking alone. Who in their right mind would step foot somewhere unknown?

My little red wagon caught the attention of the brutally honest kids who notice my differences. Point out my pale skin and my vibrant green eyes. How my figure was bigger than others and how my hands were scuffed and calloused. My nails were dirtied by the boredom in my backyard.

My little red wagon was my only friend as I was always isolated from the others. Lonely. Why should I have to live in a place like this? My mom was forced to live here, why should I? I had no friends, no social life. I grew up mute until the prime age of 5. There was no need for my voice."Honey, time for dinner, let's wash up!" My mother would call. My small steps trudging grudgingly against the pathway, the suffocating stares filling my little mind.But it's not all bad.

My little red wagon would carry my laughing sister as she would hum to the unsteady bumps of the sidewalk, and giggle at her childish tendencies. The smile she wore was big enough to tell anybody she was honestly having fun.

My little red wagon would carry all of her hopes and dreams and all her memories. Maybe it wasn't so bad as long as I had my sister. Her dirtied blonde hair and her lovely naive optimism.My little red wagon may have been mine, but it will always cherish her mind and her innocence. Her not yet broken faith of the world, held by the ties of the wagon.

But my little red wagon. Creaking with each spin of the wheel down the bumpy road in my neighborhood. The rusting handle and old tub carrying my old stuffed animals and my loving sister. And the shaking jolt of the rocks beneath my feet stumbling underneath the little red wagon. Yea maybe it wasn't so bad.

𝑷𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚Where stories live. Discover now