CiaraSittig

I am eight. I sit across from my mom in my pediatrician’s office on the paper-covered table. The paper is crinkled and uncomfortable. My mother’s head is cupped in her hands as the pediatrician leaves the room.

The leaves are dying. I know there is a future for them, even if it is months away. I would like to believe that there is some future where I will not be sick all the time.