step in swing

I'm a human being. I'm far from faultless. In addition to my obvious human-ness, I'm also a teenage girl. A vast amount of my energy is given to replaying my experiences in my head until I'm sick, or filling out to-do lists for the next six months. Even when I'm focusing on being focused at present, the back of my brain is finicky; trying to map out the rest of the day, the next month, or year.

Lately, I've been a jumble; my thoughts hopping from one question to another in such rapid succession that it's like crossing a set of stepping stones. Each stone is bigger and more puzzling than the last: my soon adventures, to high school, to college, to my career, and back again.

It's impossible to tweak my history, or know what's to come. I'll never travel in time. I can't, and won't, be prepared for everything that is to come. The future is crazy and wild and exciting, but I need to slow my pace; to see what's before my eyes -- what do they call it? To live in the present.

a house might not be a home

(where do you live?)
What a silly question, anyhow. I live wherever I go. I do not cease breathing the moment I step past my front door. I live, sprawled on the floor of my bedroom, or planted at my kitchen table; but also while on the road, in a plane, sitting at a desk or within a tent.

(what if I told you that I don't restrict living to my house, or that my house might not be my home?)
My home is the centre to which my heartstrings lead. If my homes count more than my fingers, it's not a crime - I carry a link to each one inside me. My home can be a dated hotel, a lonely campground, a beige dorm, or even a spot staked by 'SOLD' in red and white.

(who is holding me to my house?)
My home is where souls meet, pain becomes shared, warmth is spread; where hearts lie or cannot leave. It is the place that I return to. Once, or a hundred times. In person, or as a spirit. My feet run to home.

flip-flop

Flip-flop, flip-flop. Our shoes smack the earth, slap our heels. They hit the pavement, bounce on the grass, slide through the mud, serenading us with the sound of the season.

They're simple shoes. Foam and plastic. Eight dollars a pair. Bought one spring or another in a burst of optimism, then hidden beneath winter coats and backpacks in a hallway closet. Until.

Until the heat, bringing with it fields of berries to pick, lakeshore boat races, sidewalk strolls, garden waterings. Then, they become our staple, our trusty companion in shades of purple, green, and pink. They take us across the river, down the street, over the yard, through the screen door. They are the beat of our summer: flip-flop, flip-flop.

the very first

When I look back at that night, the very first thing to reappear is the skirt I wore. I hear once more the satisfying swish of sheer fabric and the sensation of a long hem tickling my ankles. The skirt sways in my memory, dancing to the guitars and voices. Then, I remember my bare toes, tapping beneath. The evening returns piece by piece. I stood in line for face paint to request stars and swirls on my arm. There were blankets to cover the grassy patch which we had claimed; for lying down and watching the sky blend into dusk; for gazing at lanterns that grew brighter by the moment. Our own lanterns were dark gold and blew out before the sun had gone. I was lying, grounded, with my feet in the grass, but floating up. 

When I look back at that night, the last thing that comes to mind is the shape of the pillow as I dropped to sleep afterwards, the faded colours of glowing stars and swirling lines still visible on my skin.