No Bones About It

Peering out the bus window with a lump stuck in my throat, dreading the embarrassment of claiming my own world stuffed into one big green-blue hideous suitcase.  As the second to the last rider to exit the bus, I dragged my feet slowly for the soles on my cruddy shoes were already at a good tear.  I refused right away to put on the "Skippy" flat sneakers (called Trainers in London), as instructed by my mother, to wear as I arrived at the camp.  The shadow that I thought left me at the bus stop still loomed.  My mother's ranting clinking in my head reminding me that wherever I go someone will be watching me.  With that thought in my mind, like a chipmunk searching for someplace to scamper, I dragged my suitcase a few feet away from the bus, and changed into the commanding flat pair sneakers.  Soon afterwards, I joined the line and like a brigade stood stiffly waiting for my name to be called.  My hair with brown-golden hues that shone reddish in the sun covered one part of my face from fear.  My head was slightly bowed down, as I stared at the ground beneath my ability to purposely turn inward my feet.  It was soft and covered with green baby moss that gave my feet an unusual balance.  I called it Mother Earth in my head relieving me with a sigh of comfort. Fairly, it gave me a sense of peace to know that I was standing on some type of spiritual ground.  At nine years old, I knew my inner peace would come from the surroundings of the camp, it was a strange feeling, as if I belonged to the camp and it belonged to me.