- My grandmother tells me I used to be a flirt. She says I flirted with everyone: the coffee baristas, the blueberries I loved to eat, the fish at the aquarium. When I was three, my curls earned me free cinnamon buns. When I was four, my grandmother bought me a kaleidoscope and I discovered my eyes for the first time. When I was five, fire trucks came to my street and I ran after them, the bright reds in my ears. She held my hand, but I let go because I wanted to know where it was going. She says that was when she lost me–I still don’t know what she means.
- My grandmother tells me I flirted with everyone: coffee baristas, blueberries, fish at the aquarium.. I discovered my eyes in the kaleidoscope’s patterns. When I was five, I let go of my grandmother’s hand to chase a fire truck down the street. She says that was when she lost me–I still don’t know what she means.
- My grandmother bought me a kaleidoscope and I discovered my eyes for the first time. She says that was when she lost me–I still don’t know what she means.
- My grandmother bought me a kaleidoscope. In its shimmering facets, I discovered my eyes.
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