one of my better efforts, i believe |
Watch me walk on rocks! I lifted a tender young sole from the soft, cool grass and let it sink against the hot limestone driveway. The other foot followed as I began to make my way across the sharp bed of stones. Look, it doesn't even hurt. The other kids believed me, even though my body language-- as if outstretched arms and a hunched back could somehow make my lighter, could somehow save my little feet from the self-inflicted sting-- betrayed me. I was a little girl in the country, barefoot, innocent, and those are the kinds of games we played: tests of endurance, of how-long-can-you-go- before-you-can't-take-any-more? I am no longer a child, and I live in a city with smooth, even pavement as far as the eye can see. I rarely go barefoot anymore, except at home. I suppose I must miss my scenic rural childhood, because that irresistable simplicity in you reminds me of it, makes me treat your romance like some nostalgic miracle. I regard you as a savior for your kind but practiced words, occasional tiny scraps of security you so nonchalantly throw me. And as my friends look on I explain that you were busy, I explain that you were tired, I explain that you were sorry, even if you didn't say so. Look, it doesn't even hurt. Watch me walk on rocks. |