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growing up, whatever that means

by Liza Kolbasov

Trees in Rhode Island stand tall and thin, reaching toward the deep-blue sky with their spindly branches. From the window of a train speeding from Providence to Boston, I watch them stretch, toward the clouds, toward each other, standing proud and bare in the icy earth. On the CalTrain from my hometown up to the city, there are rows of flat houses, strip malls, and mountains in the distance. It’s all so familiar I barely notice it as it flies by. Yet New England is different: Each time I step on the train, I’m reminded of the new place I’m in—and how much time has passed. One day the sun peers through the green patchwork quilt of trees obscuring the sky, then flecks of gold and amber fall from above, then snow lines the edges of rooftops.