footfalls
Sitting down where a storm drain becomes the “black hole” becomes a magic tunnel. Perched on steep concrete, poured in the 1990s, which is…
Sitting down where a storm drain becomes the “black hole” becomes a magic tunnel. Perched on steep concrete, poured in the 1990s, which is also a rocky hill which leads down to the sparkling creek, shallow but running fast from last night’s storms. Thinking of making memories, shaking old ones loose, creating new trails.
All I have to do is look to my right and ask, Could there be a new path worn into dirt, one made by my children’s feet, poison ivy be damned? It wouldn’t take much. Just a summer’s worth of wearing down the green shoots underfoot, deciding which rocks could be stepped on without slipping, which log wasn’t rotted all the way through.
It’s a short walk to this place, only a slightly marred by the black plastic tubes that run the excess water down the long slope and into this creek. What is this called? I’m sure there’s a name for it, but I don’t know it.
Later, I whisper I love you to my daughter who is brushing my wet hair, pulling the brush through my hair carefully and down further onto my back, a free massage. I don’t get a response and that’s ok, because I feel the love through the soft movement of the hairbrush. Sometimes, you don’t get it back the way you’d expect.