Image of a Golden Flower



Today I've decided to write for Chrysanthemum--she is away. Staying with some friend, taking some lesson. It doesn't matter to me. Maybe I can write my troubles away.

I guess I've been too sad to do much to settle in. Most of my things are still packed. Chrysanthemum already has many friends, is taking lessons and making things. I'm the writer, and the artist--but Chrysanthemum is good with her hands. She has so many models all around her room. She is a few months younger than I am. But she is far more beautiful. Her hair springs from her head like petals from a flower. She always complains that she can't do anything with it, it's too short, too curly. I wish I had hair like hers--mine is so plain. Brown, straight, ugly. And she has friends.

I know it's bad of me to complain. But I need some way to let it out. Nothing seems to be working out, and everything is going the wrong way. I wish I could slow everything down. And oh, how I miss the snow. So white, shining and beautiful. Here the air feels strange, wet, and still. Chrysanthemum used to say that the air farther north was dry, and seemed to whip the liquid out of her. But I suppose that is simply us, two opposites--she a bright flower in the field, I a dark night above snowy ground.



The first day

Once again, it falls on me to continue the chronicles of our departure from the cold! While at school, I found that Imogene and I had no classes together, although we were allowed to stay with each other on the first day. I felt very sorry for her, but I soon forgot my worries. I have made so many new friends already! And so far, no gum-chewers. Yet.

Now as I sit here, the sun is shining through the window brightly, with a light like a buttercup flower, which we would never have had this time of day farther north. The sky would be white and pale, all would be in black and white. Imogene seems to miss the monochromatical landscape. But she has always liked subtle colors, dark blues and blacks and grays. Most of her clothes are colored this way. At first I thought it was to blend into the dark landscape, but now I see it was simply because she is a quiet person. Dark brown hair, pleasant face--her hair! It is straight as a pin. Mine is wiry and golden-orange. I wish I had her hair.




Today, I must make yet another entry--Imogene is too sad to write anything. "You do it," she says. She is lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I wish she wouldn't do that. It makes me feel sad, too.

We started this because, our mother says, we need something to help us to settle in. Imogene needs it more than I do, though, and she isn't saying anything. I wish she would sit up and do something! There's nothing she can do about this, so she may as well just let it be. Apparently she doesn't see it that way.

I admit, I do feel a little ashamed at talking about her that way. But she is really beginning to annoy me. Tomorrow, though, is the first day of school in our new town. I hope she won't be as apathetic in front of the kids at school. I know I wouldn't want to make friends with someone who looked so dreary. But that is cruel of me. I'll have to introduce her to friends. I know if she just listens to me, she'll have a fine time here. She always complains that it is too hot here. But really that's just her missing the cold.

Well, now I'm done with my little rant. Probably no more tomorrow, but the day after.



Stories--And a Cheerful Hello

Oh--what a day!

Tiring, yes, but interesting.

Today was our first day in the new house. It is much bigger than the last. Cramped, cold, drearily painted. This house is so beautiful! It looks over a field across the way, and we have a huge yard, plenty of trees and flowers. How glad I am to have left! No cold, no cars rushing by the street at night, no streetlamp shining into my eyes and waking me up--and best of all, no Trudy Gopnik. What a relief! A gum-chewing horror's wide-eyed stare will no longer follow me all my days. No more nasal singing. No more innocent pigtail-twirling. (Which really meant to hide an evil smirk as she sticks a piece of gum on your seat. But I saw through that.)

Imogene seemed sad to leave our home. I know she had friends there, but really, how could she love the place? She seemed besotted with the snowy, freezing winters. I guess it was her instinct--she was born there, after all.

Right now, as I type this, she is sitting in her room, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe dreaming about our old home. Her room is right across from mine--which now reminds me, we no longer have to share a room, like in our old home. But I will miss that, somewhat. At least our rooms are close together.

The day after tomorrow, we'll begin school. I wonder what will happen! I will most likely help Imogene to make friends, since she seems to have no interest in it.



Sometimes, beginning is the hardest part.

It makes you ask questions. Like: Am I moving in the right direction? Am I asking the right questions, doing the right things? What if I do something wrong?

Once you're started, though, you have a little momentum. Enough to speed up a little--or slow down. Just so you feel comfortable.

Here are my new beginnings. They could teach me something, help me slow down or speed up. They might make me a better person. Maybe, if you don't know me, this isn't making any sense to you. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm finding a way.

At least, that's what I've been told.

Maybe there will be more tomorrow. But don't expect too much from me.