Little Things That Make Me Myself, A Mosaic of My Life Atop My Dad’s Shoulders

By Abigail Tinkham

My dad brought me to the patriots parade when I was younger I was on his shoulders and never slid off the waterslide like my mom watched nervously as I climbed an apple tree fighting with my brother had a seizure in the middle of the floor falling leaves outside raked into piles to jump in my barbie jeep the radio worked but you didn’t believe me that I found the fruit on a bush outside after recess with a friend and not being found until the music teacher came outside I played clarinet in the band for years I was scared to make the bed if the cat was on the ice my dad would teach me how to skate with a bucket on a pond in March freezing as I insisted to go swimming at six animals lined up in a row on my barn goat bucking my head bloody nose filled with powdered sugar from the fair skin burning at the beach while I look for sand dollars with my grandmother never went into the water through the ice up to my knee scraped and bloody while learning to ride a bike in Florida the only vacation always camping in the woods and making s’mores in the backyard afraid of the fox running so fast I became cross country captain crunch cereal was never my favorite umbrella always overhead in the rain while I dance and sing the lead in the second grade musical about friends coming and going on trails through the woods crickets jumping over a hurdle on a horse on accident and staying on game days sitting in the bleachers hoping to catch the ball going right past me as I pick flowers in the field day tie dying shirts covered in ice cream as it drips in the sun overhead as I float in the lake eating lobster rolls down a hill with grass in my hair always long span of time without ever throwing up I grew with my problems growing larger than my abandonment issues a release of my artwork in the paper so proud climbing my first mountain and feeling on top of the world traveling with freedom in jeopardy out of fear of leaving my family memories hard to forget the little things that make me myself holding together a mosaic of my life has become school as I approach another four years old never falling from his shoulders but never going back up