Leash Kid

My sister should have been a leash kid. Serina was an impossible toddler, always running away on any shopping excursion. She would either be found giggling hysterically or balling her eyes out. I was seven-years-old and a big girl, so my mom had told me to bring her back as she bolted towards the produce section. After running around in circles and chasing her through the shopping carts, I had managed to catch her and struggled to hold her hand as she tried to squirm away.

I dragged Serina to the closest aisle, where I thought my mom had gone, but she was no where to be found. I checked the next aisle, but still no luck. Several aisles later, I started to panic because I still could not find my mom. I was lost; I never realized how big the grocery store was and now I would never find my mom. I was doomed to wander around the grocery store for the rest of my life; I would have to live there and somehow keep track of my nuisance of a sister. This was all my sister’s fault. I hated her. I hated her. I hated her. I burst into tears.

The manager of the store found me clutching my sister’s hand, who was tugging in an effort to make her next escape. I nodded my head when he asked me if I was lost and somehow managed to give him a description of what my mom was wearing. All he understood from my blubbering was a “pink dress” and “gold earrings.” Just as we were about to look for my mom, she walked up. She was wearing jeans and a green sweatshirt, an outfit completely opposite of what I had just described. Luckily, she was friends with the manager or he might have been skeptical to let us go with her. I’m pretty sure he knew my sister from her constant escapes and I wish he would tell my mom to get Serina a leash, and then this could have all been avoided.