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Feet
My feet have walked many paths, but none the one I want them to, at least not since a long time ago. They walk around the house, etch grooves into the floor where they have passed a hundred times before. Leave footprints in the grass on the lawn, rest in the shade of a tree. The ground is so green here. Lush and rich even in the warmest days of summer. Gentle breezes to caress the sweat off my face. I hate it. My feet have stood on much harder ground; have felt the prick of dried grass against their soles, have flinched away from the sharp teeth of dusty stones pitting the roads. Have felt the slow burn of summer rise through the ground to meet them, longed for water from a dropped hose to ease the sting. They have passed hurriedly around globs of dried chewing tobacco in the shameful street-edges. Have been painted accidentally crimson with the kiss of a sour cherry. These feet have led me past the woman squatting in front of their houses in their bright flowered dresses, scarves to hide their hair from the world, their chatter chasing the many pigeons and sparrows into a cloudless sky. Past the old man who sat alone in his corner and always nodded formally, his "Asalomaleikum," following me and binding my feet, unsure in the face of an adult greeting. They have pinned my shadow to me, so I was always assured of a ready playmate, standing awkward and embarrassed behind my parents' backs, their backs that were so tall, tall enough to shield me from all that is bad in this world. They have gripped the bark of trees and swung free in the summer heat while persimmon juice filled my mouth with texture and sweet taste, and challenged the sky and and the grapevine trellis when I flew on the yard swing, hair loose to the wind and brushing the ground with each dip. They have crushed dirty sand between their toes, and witnessed the birth of looming castles and tiny tunnels, palaces of the mind. And always, always they pointed towards the mountains, always to that place so far away that I saw every day. The mountains that were the border, and inside them I was home.
These feet have betrayed me. They have led me away.
My feet have walked many paths, but none the one I want them to, at least not since a long time ago. They walk around the house, etch grooves into the floor where they have passed a hundred times before. Leave footprints in the grass on the lawn, rest in the shade of a tree. The ground is so green here. Lush and rich even in the warmest days of summer. Gentle breezes to caress the sweat off my face. I hate it. My feet have stood on much harder ground; have felt the prick of dried grass against their soles, have flinched away from the sharp teeth of dusty stones pitting the roads. Have felt the slow burn of summer rise through the ground to meet them, longed for water from a dropped hose to ease the sting. They have passed hurriedly around globs of dried chewing tobacco in the shameful street-edges. Have been painted accidentally crimson with the kiss of a sour cherry. These feet have led me past the woman squatting in front of their houses in their bright flowered dresses, scarves to hide their hair from the world, their chatter chasing the many pigeons and sparrows into a cloudless sky. Past the old man who sat alone in his corner and always nodded formally, his "Asalomaleikum," following me and binding my feet, unsure in the face of an adult greeting. They have pinned my shadow to me, so I was always assured of a ready playmate, standing awkward and embarrassed behind my parents' backs, their backs that were so tall, tall enough to shield me from all that is bad in this world. They have gripped the bark of trees and swung free in the summer heat while persimmon juice filled my mouth with texture and sweet taste, and challenged the sky and and the grapevine trellis when I flew on the yard swing, hair loose to the wind and brushing the ground with each dip. They have crushed dirty sand between their toes, and witnessed the birth of looming castles and tiny tunnels, palaces of the mind. And always, always they pointed towards the mountains, always to that place so far away that I saw every day. The mountains that were the border, and inside them I was home.
These feet have betrayed me. They have led me away.