I want to tell you about a place. I want you to go there with me, to stand beneath the concrete archway. But I don't have to tell you it's concrete, and I don't want you to have to see it the way I do.
I want to take you to a place, but it's a universal place. It's not Paris. It's not Rome. It's not Tokyo. It's high school.
I only have to say the words wrought-iron gate and concrete pillars, and I've got the high school entrance right in my mind. Of course I do, I walked through it every day for four years.
I don't want you to have to see that high school. I want you to see yours, or your best friend's or your husband's.
I want to tell you what happened to a young, slim, scared little girl when she went to high school. Though the setting in my mind is that semi-urban high school by the cemetary, you don't have to see it that way.
I want to take you somewhere. I want you to relate to the girl in the plaid skirt.
I don't want to spend pages and pages telling you about the green grass and the unheated winters.
I just want you to know it already.
Can you see it yet?