By Priya, age 9
Freedom. 24 hours of plane rides. 24 hours of masks. A few long hours of ear popping. Grey mushy stuff that they call cereal. Coughing people. Freedom. Well, more like torture. The adults say it will be over soon. Well, I really hope so.
Torture. Pure torture. And I thought the plane ride was bad. Quarantine. I will not get another breath of fresh air for two whole weeks. Plus, I’m getting tested. Twice. They say that it’s just a cotton swab and a little poke up the nose. Well, let me tell you the truth. A stick lined with sharp hooks going further up the nose than anything will ever go. But finally, the two weeks are over. The taxi comes at 6:30am, waiting for us.
I’m standing on the sidewalk by my Aunt Virginia’s house. Slowly, I take off my mask and breathe in the fresh air. I feel a wonderful feeling. Hope. Maybe, just maybe, there is hope.