sitting, waiting.

Waiting for my next adventure to roll towards me through the darkness. With an old blanket throw wrapped around my knees to ward off mosquitoes, I blend into the dusk and, in turn, the night melts into me. I'm not a young girl in ratty pajamas; I am the motorcycle speeding around the corner, racing rubber tires over asphalt. I am the neighbour's cat, only the white tip of my tail visible against the layers of black. I am the twangs of a country song, floating over the yard from a car radio nearby. I am the world, and merely a speck in it. 

Waiting for what, I'm not quite sure. The hard, white plastic of the chair pokes at my bones.  I am but one of a gathered circle, and we take turns reminiscing. (Do you remember when? Oh, the days I used to...) This is the game no one tires of. The rickety table, the flowers, the trees, and even our faces are fuzzy, yet the stories of our pasts stand clear before us. I pull the throw tighter around my shoulders, head up to the sky. My adventure is coming, and waiting isn't so terrible.

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.