Yes, I am saying goodbye. But don’t worry! This separation is only because I’ve decided to move blogs. After realizing that Shima has become more like a home to me in the year since I started this blog, this travel blog no longer seemed to meet my needs. I have a home; I am no longer a Gypsy. The Hour is not as Unknown as it used to be, although I still hope to enjoy every minute of it. So, with that, I’d like to introduce to you:
Remember New Year Cheer? Here are some more funnies from my family and friends to brighten up your summer.
When playing Would You Rather, QuaQua listens carefully and then gives a totally random answer.
My Question: “Would you rather walk backwards all day or walk on your hands all day?”
Qua’s Answer: “I can’t walk forwards.”
My Question: “Would you rather be able to fly or turn into different animals?”
Qua’s Answer: “I want to turn into a fly.”
Here comes the last chapter! I hope you guys have enjoyed Burnt Trees and Memories.
All the credit for this beautiful drawing of Jake and Jasmine’s treehouse goes to my friend Gabrielle.
I stay up in the new treehouse, letting the pure beauty of it comfort me. I’d already known that our old treehouse was gone forever, taking with it our former relationship. But this smooth planking and clean floor promises something more, something that might be even better.
I don’t realize how late it’s getting until I hear steps on the ladder.
“Sorry, Mom!” I call, scooching towards the doorway. “I’m com–”
Jake stands in front of me, tall as I’d remembered, filling the doorway. He’s gotten even more muscular, too. His hair is a little longer; less spiky and more wavy.
Dad and I decide to visit a Florida beach on the last day of our trip. As we pull into our hotel room, I notice a billboard above the highway. ‘If You’re Looking For A Sign,’ it read, ‘This Is It.’
This is it, I repeat to myself. I suddenly feel happy, like something new and exciting is going to happen.
You want something to change? The pastor’s voice asks. Start with forgiveness.
I carry my bags up, musing all the way. When I settle down in my room, I call, “Dad? Do you have any postcards? I wanna write a letter.”
“It’s ok to let some of the anger out by talking,” Dad says. The Florida roads scroll on, looking the same as they did last time Dad tried to have this conversation. Nothing seems to have changed. But isn’t that what this trip was all about? Change? Being able to forget — even if I can’t forgive? My fingers itch but I avoid rubbing my scars. “There is no change without forgiveness,” the pastor’s voice puts in.
When I wake up the next day, I’m surprised at how tired I feel, considering I’d been in bed for over ten hours. I get up slowly and pick out a filmy rose-colored top and a pair of jeans dyed white. I survey myself in the mirror, enjoying the way the shirt accompanies my wavy dark hair and my deep brown eyes. Memories of the compliments Jake used to give me threaten to swoop in, but I brush them aside.
I wake up with an unreasonable feeling of nervousness — but that’s nothing new, not since I got my scars. I survey the Bugs Bunny wallpaper of my room, vaguely remembering having arrived at my grandparent’s house in Texas late last night. The familiar cartoon characters encourage me, and I get out of bed, starting to choose my clothes for the day.
“Everything will be ok,” I tell myself. “All you have to do is survive this trip and everything will be ok.”