The glorious toy store

was filled with bright, colorful gadgets every kid coveted.

The huge, blown up pictures of Barbies enchanted me.

All the kids were joyously playing with the toys, in hopes to call them theirs.

The sounds of squeaks, whistles and shouts could be heard from ten feet away.

The joyful music lured me toward the doors;

I could feel the "whoosh" of the air condition.

The bright yellow and red K.B. Toys sign shone brighter than all the rest.

A tug came from the warm, larger hand that was gripping mine.

"Meg, we don't need more toys," the familiar voice said to me.

"But Mom," I whined, as we quickly walked past my favorite store.

I fumed and stomped through the rest of the mall,

pouting, in hopes that we might go back.

 

The years zoomed by

like racecars.

Seven, eight, nine, ten…

I grew up; taller and more mature.

I gradually found no joy in the toys that were bought out of trickery or guilt,

but were now just colorful, plastic debris that littered the ground of my room.

Now, at age eleven, all I thought about were clothes, jewelry, handbags and shoes.

Malls felt like home.

 

One day when I had nothing to do

and was lying on the cream-colored carpet,

staring at my colorless ceiling with no thoughts in my head,

I decided to call up my friend, and asked her to go to the movies.

We made plans to meet up in half an hour.

I quickly changed into something decent,

painfully brushed out my tangled hair,

and jumped into the golden van, ready to go.

My mom slowly turned on the car, and we were off.

"Meg," she said, calling to me. "I think you can go to the mall on your own now."

I was ecstatic; I silently squealed and fidgeted in my seat.

No more awkward silences between friends,

when we couldn't talk about things in front of our parents.

We didn't have to follow or be followed by an adult.

We were able to roam and do as we please;

no one was going to discipline us for crazy behavior.

I smiled and thought, I am free.

 

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