Photo by Angie Shenouda
the mother at the self checkout line next to me with chocolate milk in her cart
the baby poisonous scorpion i found under my bed and almost stepped on last summer
the man we saw on the way home selling bundles of pastel flowers with his wife
the olives on our tree that fall where the quails can’t get them
the pretty white girl he had a crush on who he said was mean
the pool in my neighbor’s backyard that’s always bluer and cleaner than ours
the girl with smooth blonde hair who i used to swap lip gloss with in third grade
the dog i saw on Tiktok whose owners built him his own apartment with couches and a TV
the sparkly five inch heels in the back of my closet that i’ve never worn out once
the baby green weeds peeking through the cracks on the sidewalk on my way home
the pack of coyotes across the street who sing when they think we’re sleeping
the little girl who screamed for chocolate milk in the store and got exactly what she wanted.
Kindergarten 