Tuesday, August 4, 2015

She Walks.


She walks up and down the grassy hills.

Up at a slant.
Down at a lean.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Slow.
Steady.
Calm.

The smell of a newly manicured golf course.
The smell of summer.
Lawnmowers.
Lemonade.
Chlorine.
Dirty knees.
Messy hair.
Bare feet.

The summit of each hill feels more like a smooth bump instead of a sharp, needle-like point.
And each hill meets her feet like loud music hits the chest.

Vibrating the body.
Intruding the senses.
But ever so kind.

She never stops to ask why or how or where she is going.
She just knows what it feels like when she stops- her muscles sob, her blisters plead for attention, and layers of skin start peeling away like pages in a calendar.

Each step presses into the earth, resembling a heartbeat pounding away during a long run.

Up.
Down.
Slowly, gracefully, she walks.



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