There is a chance that I am allergic to my classroom.
At the end of last year I packed up all my dusty things, the things that the teacher before me had put on the shelves when she arrived and never took them out, put all those things that I never took out into boxes.
The boxes and desks and chairs and other boxes where all moved into the top floor of the air conditioned library where I'd be housed the following school year; this particular school year.
This summer went fast, and then I was here again. Specifically I am in my bed. It is the day before school starts, and I want desperately for my lungs to open up so that the excited-for-tomorrow can settle in in its place.
But they can't. I can't get my lungs to open up. I can't get myself to want to go tomorrow because I am quite sure I am allergic to my classroom.
When we were little, my sisters and I, the house was full of carpet. At least, I think the house was full of carpet; now it is not, and I have been told that it was. The house is not full of carpet because when I was two because when I turned two I was told I had asthma.
When I was two a child under two couldn't have asthma, all they could have was a cough, severl hundred allergies and a continuous wheeze. The called it "sick".
I was sick. Very. Sick.
When I was two mom and dad took out all the carpet, rolled it into a big ball and burned it.
(that may be a bit off as I don't remember this happening, nor was I told that they were burned. I like the idea that they were burned as an offering to the god of breath. I am sure they were just tossed into a hole to become the flooring of a family of rabbits that were not allergic to dust mites and their excrement)
Now that I am heading towards thirty-two I need my mom and dad to come down to México, take out all the carpet, roll it into a big ball, and burn it. Otherwise I am going to spend the better part of the first reporting theme in the hospital.
Besides this, I am doing quiet well. How are you?
