Tricycle | Awake in the World

My mother doesn’t talk about her childhood much, so the few stories she’s shared have made a big impression on me. The only thing she ever told me about her years at boarding school in Pennsylvania was that she and her friends used to stash jugs of apple juice up on the roof and wait until the sun gave it some kick. The juice fermented and produced an alcoholic cider. It was thrilling to picture my mom in a uniform getting tipsy on a steep Mary Poppins–type rooftop. It made the apple juice in my lunchbox seem much more exciting, packed with potential.