Kenna- 8 Years Old
I was about eight years old when my grandmother lost me for the first time. It was November, and we had taken a special trip from the Bronx into Manhattan to visit a specialist about my grandma’s arthritis. One minute I was holding her hand, and we were weaving in and out of the crowds, the next minute I wasn’t holding anything. Like I had been holding onto to smoke. In typical kid logic I stood still, convinced that if I didn’t move, she would realize that I wasn’t with her and come back to get me. I always remember the smells and jostling of the people who just walked around me, no concern for this little kid that’s imitating a statue on the sidewalk. I probably stood there for a good hour, the wind penetrating my thin jacket, shivering with hot tears running down my
