Jamestown, Rhode Island, is a tiny town. At nine miles long and one mile wide, there aren't many places to go. When I was four, I didn't understand this. I have lived in the same house my whole life. It sits on a quiet street near the center of town. With gray shingles and a large enclosed porch, its old structure stands out against some of the newer houses. The large yard slopes toward our neighbors' barrier of trees. My swing set, my favorite part of my house as a child, sat in the middle of the field.
One day, I wanted to go to the playground down the road. My mom couldn't take me because she had to run errands. As I sat in my room, I looked out the window and could see the top of the slide beckoning me. I searched under my bed for my ever-faithful Barbie suitcase, and decided to pack the essentials I would need for my journey. After stuffing the suitcase with enough socks for the next week, I made the long trek down the hallway. I snuck down the stairs, skipping the creaky step. When I reached the bottom, I peeked down the hallway into the kitchen. My mom was busy cooking dinner. It was my chance to escape. I snuck out onto the porch and inched up the screen door.
I was free! I bolted through the garden to the edge of the field. As I reached my neighbors' trees, I stopped in my tracks. I could hear the other children shrieking with laughter, but I could not bring myself to step onto the road. I sat in despair, watching birds fly in and out of the tree next to me. I sat and waited for what seemed like years. Finally, I heard a rustling behind me. My mom had discovered my escape and had come to take me to the playground. We took hands and made our way down the street.
