Tiny memory of OJ unfortunately

A crying teacher and a bad man

I have a few searing memories of early elementary school:

Watching my art teacher write “Beth” in thick black marker on my painting of an owl.

Feeling a boy named Ethan press a piece of paper into my hand and when I saw the red heart drawn on it my cheeks felt hot.

Shrieking in delight with my friend Emily on the swings when we grabbed hands at the apex of our arcs.

The astonishment of hearing my voice in a microphone as I sang in a packed auditorium.

The stench of the ginko tree outside the dropoff, and avoiding stepping on the berries.

The day when the OJ Simpson verdict was read.