Young Writers Society

The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. On that day, my whole world changed.

April 29, 1993 started out like any normal day in Wrightsville, Vermont. I ate a Pop Tart for breakfast before running out to catch the bus. I looked back as I climbed on. My mother was standing by the window, waving and smiling. Every school day of my life, my mother had stood at that window and waved as the bus pulled away. Nothing seemed different about that day.

When all of us kids got to school, we heard that a water pipe had burst near the 2nd grade classroom. We knew that meant we would be going on a field trip, so we were all excited. Field trips were always fun. Even on rainy days.

Five minutes later we were back on the bus, headed into town for the day. I hoped we could go to the art museum. I had loved art since my first day of kindergarten, when the teachers had attempted to show us how to draw our self-portrait. I loved studying the paint strokes, and seeing how they made up a whole picture when you stepped back and looked.

We didn't go to the art museum that day. Instead, we went to the library for Story Time. I hardly heard the story the librarian was reading, but I was fascinated by the illustrations.

It wasn't until after we left the library that it happened. I spotted something bright lying by the curb and I stopped to examine it. It was a pink crayon. I stood and held it in my hands, thinking of all the things I could draw with it.

When I finally looked up, the bus was gone and I was alone. I knew my teachers would notice I was missing and come back, so I sat in the curb to wait.

But they didn't come back. I was cold and lonely, and I could feel tears sliding down my cheeks, mingling with the rain. I didn't know what to do.

"Hello."

I looked up in surprise at the man who stood in front of me. He gave me a friendly smile and held out his hand. I stood up and wiped at my face with my coat sleeve.

"Are you lost?" the man asked. I started to shake my head, but stopped and nodded slowly.

"The bus left and I don't know where they are," I said, still sniffing.

"Well, why don't you come with me and we'll go find them," the man said, taking my hand. I followed him, not knowing what else to do. He led me down the street toward a dark blue car. When he opened the door, I got in and sat on the cloth seat. The man got in and started the car. I curled up on the seat and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I sat up and looked out the window. I had never seen anything like the huge skyscrapers that lined the street we were driving down, and I started to feel scared.

"Where are we?" I asked. The name the man said in answer sounded familiar to me, but I didn't think I had ever been to ‘New York' before. I thought maybe I had learned about it in school. I looked down at the pink crayon I still held in my hand and thought about drawing.

Finally, the man stopped the car and got out. I waited for him to open my door, but he didn't. Instead, he walked into the building he had stopped in front of. I started to cry. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was home, eating cookies and watching TV. My mother would come into the room and ask how school was. I would tell her what we had done, and then maybe I would draw a picture for her.

The man came back after a few minutes and opened my door. I followed him into the building and up a flight of stairs. When we reached a door, he opened it and I followed him quietly into the room.

The room was cold and I shivered inside my damp dress. I hoped I could go home soon.

"I found this orphan on the street and I decided to bring her here," the man was saying. I saw that he was talking to another man who was sitting behind a desk. This man was big, and I felt chills run down my spine when he glanced at me.

"I think we'll have room for her," the big man said, "Just leave her here and I'll take care of everything."

I wasn't sure what an orphan was, but I was pretty sure I wasn't one. I didn't say anything because I didn't know what to say.

The big man rang a bell and a woman entered through another door. She smiled at me as she took my hand. I was led into a small room that looked like a bedroom.

"This is going to be your room now," the woman said.

I thought for a minute. "Could I have some paper?" I rolled the pink crayon around in my hand. The woman looked surprised as she turned and left the room, but she came back with a stack of construction paper. I felt a tiny smile creep across my face as I set to work.

It has now been fifteen years since I first came here. I don't know if I'll ever see my mother again. All these years, drawing has been my world. I'm writing this in my room. The walls are lined with paper of all colors, decorated with swirls and lines. What's left of the pink crayon still sits on my desk, a reminder of what used to be. In this room I hope and dream of the day when I can go home.

The day when I will see my mother again.