![]() A streaming mass of teenagers breaks around us like a river around a rock and pays us about as much attention. Holding Annie tighter, I rock and turn in slow circles as I did to calm her when she was an infant. I push past countless staring families, finally reaching the relative openness between the Carousel and Dumbo. The green metal chutes double back upon themselves to create the illusion of a short queue for prospective riders. Clutching her struggling body against mine, I work my way back through the line, which sends her into outright panic. Even in Disney World, where periodic meltdowns are common, her fit draws stares. I stand motionless in the line, looking just like everyone else except for the hot tears that have begun to sting my eyes.Īnnie keeps pointing into the crowd, becoming more and more agitated. ![]() I don’t because Annie’s mother died seven months ago. Suddenly Annie jerks taut in my arms and points into the crowd. ![]() ![]() I am standing in line for Walt Disney’s It’s a Small World ride, holding my four-year-old daughter in my arms, trying to entertain her as the serpentine line of parents and children moves slowly toward the flat-bottomed boats emerging from the grotto to the music of an endless audio loop. ![]()
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