would stay with me, wait until I got bored and tired, and then take me home. Little did I know, the “home” they meant was not my home sweet home. In the end, no matter how much I cried and screamed, the only things I received were a hand wave and a smile on their faces, and then they left me. Days after that, they always left after they promised they would stay by my side until I gave up faith in their promise and had to make a passive compromise. Now this preschool became my second home. Tat was the first-ever trauma of betrayal and deception that I, a turning-three little girl, received from my beloved ones who were supposed always to give me the sincerest things as the world out there is already full of deceits.
Preschool, a place that was supposed to be filled with delights and smiles, on the contrary, was full of tears and fears. First, I resented my parents because I thought they wanted to abandon me here every day. But later, when I realized this place was the reason for their acts, my hatred was diverted. I hated the room with its overly colorful, annoying drawings on the walls. I hated having to share my toys with other children. I hated having to eat vegetables. I hated having to learn to read and write. I hated my teacher since she always told me to do those things. I hated the bogeyman because the teacher said she would tell him to come and catch me if I did not behave. And most of all, I hated this place. Its very presence separated me from the warm embrace of my parents throughout the day.
Children are the most forgiving. Teir memory storage is as tiny as their bodies, and they only want to fill it with things that please them. Tat is why on the day I left my “dear” preschool, my little brain cells decided to leave all the memories
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and feelings I had for it behind, leave them all at the place from where they came, and let time do its job.
Te reason for my inescapable return to the middle of this playground again, with my father, is to pick up my sister when she finishes her day. Before we arrive, my father picked me up when I finished my extra class, and I did not want to give him more work by taking me home first. It is a serene afternoon day. I am currently a middle-school student, eager for the upcoming break. Te summer is coming close, I can hear the bells announcing her imminent arrival ringing somewhere by the characterized heat of Bien Hoa city. However, the spring wind still lingers on every branch and blade of grass. She is trying to display her shrinking gentle presence before getting engulfed by the ardent temper of summer, by elegantly gliding through bushes of wildflowers nearby, gracefully coating herself with the scent of bloom. I am, as well, dressing myself with the bloom of youth.
I keep standing there, gazing at those buildings from a distance until my father says: “Could you go up there and pick up your sister? I will wait for you down here,” his direction pulls me up from the ocean of flashbacks I was drowning in. Knowing he absolutely will do so, I give him a nod as an answer.
“Alright, it is not the end of the world or something,” I reassure myself. Clinging to the courage I pretend to have, I walk straight ahead toward the prison that once incarcerated my childhood freedom. As I slowly approach those buildings, I look up and feel like it is smirking at me with its haughty
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