I look up.
Heavy textured clouds seem to blend in with the ash-colored neighborhood, wrapping the trees with a pleasant stillness.
It’s warm and I feel immersed in the balmy weather. Midday… April, maybe May.
I look at all the people who pass me by, holding sacks with groceries, stridently moving, and chattering.
I pass the corner of the Engineer’s Shop and walk along the street that takes me to our place.
My mother is waving from the 4th floor, hugging my steps with her eyes. I fly her a kiss.
It is the first time when she entrusted me with money and sent me to buy bread from the bakery shop.
It’s a 10-minute walk from our place, squeezed between other small shops, in the downtown of an industrial, small town.
I feel adventurous, trusted, and old enough to mix with wavy, adult coats that rush, and cars that stop instinctively to let them cross.
While climbing the stairs, I count again the change and check the bag.
I feel the excitement burning my chest not only because I was successful in my mission but because I knew that next week I may get to go a few more blocks away, to pick up the order from the butcher.
One of my first steps into a life that tastes different every time I walk into it with confidence. Either bitter, savory, spicy, or creamy, the texture, the flavor is nuzzling my spirit. I start living.
Cheers to life, to all the beauty that I still know nothing about, to all the paths that I am walking on today, and to the ones that will meet me tomorrow.