Image generated by Microsoft Copilot
I’m in this strange place called School. They tell me I’m an “infant,” but I don’t know what that means. I’m five—how can I be an infant? Babies are infants, and I’m not a baby anymore. Am I?
The room feels so big, with windows that let in pieces of the sky. The rows of little chairs make me feel even smaller. The teacher talks, and her voice floats over us like a gentle hum. I don’t know what all the words mean, but they feel soft and safe somehow; not like my mum's.
At playtime, I'm alone, I see some big girls in the corner of the playground. They’re clapping their hands together, their faces bright with smiles. Their voices sing out, and I stop to watch:
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can;
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with B,
And put it in the oven for baby and me.
Their hands move so fast, slapping and clapping like magic. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The sound of their laughter fills the air, and it’s like the world is made of songs and games I don’t know yet.
I just stand there, wondering about all of it— about how this strange, new place, can feel so full of secrets.