Rebecca

The morning was chilly; the kind of chilly Daisy usually underestimated. She closed her sweater and crossed her arms tight across her chest in an attempt to trap the little heat she could close to her body. Another morning waking up far earlier than she would on her own accord, she thought to herself. Another morning spent in classes she couldn’t seem to focus in, being fed information she found useless and uninteresting.
Daisy always found herself elsewhere when she daydreamed. She would retrace and recreate in her head places she once knew and fill in the spaces of where she was yet to go. There were few who knew of her desire to see everything there was to see. She did not talk about it much. Her resolve was fragile after being run ragged by doubts of her own and she did not need the wisdom and rational opinions of others to start crumbling this dream to its foundation.
With others, she would listen when directly addressed, but when conversation relied upon the group, she would allow herself to remember the crisp scent of air on a cold day in the mountains of Tennessee, the way the tree branches stuck out from the trees like skinny arms covered in snow in Vermont. She would hear the chatter of the birds in the morning in rural Maryland. Sometimes she would taste the small, sweet blueberries in Maine.
When alone, she would find herself thinking of places even further away: little villages in the United Kingdom, all the different terrains of Africa and Australia, Mediterranean seaside cliffs in Croatia, the Andes in Peru and the reefs near Costa Rica. The globe on the desk in her apartment spun then stopped in her hands. She would imagine the people in the first country her country landed on. The farmers and fishermen, natives, the people on whose shoulders the history of the country and its inhabitants rested upon.


Wut u think