Seven is a magic age. I remember when my sister was seven. She could do that thing on roller skates where you turn your feet out and roll round and round in a circle like you’re standing on a record. Also, she had the “mean” teacher but she still went to school everyday.

I sat in my neighbor’s driveway one glowing autumn afternoon, watched her skating(right next to the crumbly part of the sidewalk even, that’s what we call bravery) and thought “Someday, I’ll be seven.”

I don’t recall the specifics of being seven myself.

Newly seven year old Zizza does not have a mean teacher, on the contrary in fact, but she does go to school every single day without complaint. Does her homework too.

She can’t do that spin thingy on her roller skates but the other day when she had them on she actually glided along on the pavement a bit rather than stomping through the rocks as she’s habitually done in the past.

I watch her learning to glide through the fading autumn light and I think “I was seven once.”

Seven is a magic age. It really is amazing.

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