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.

feeling, living.

If I'm swelling with mosquito bites and red ant stings, it's okay. I'll take raw patches of sunburnt skin - that's fine. I don't mind black under-eye bags hinting at sleepless nights, or puffy rims from tears that leak.

Those itchy bumps on my arms, legs, and neck? They are proof of my living. The salt water trickling down my cheeks, off my nose? They show that I am feeling. You may be safe, content, clean, and free of pain, but I want to be loving, hurting, breathing, sobbing, laughing, roaming, connecting, and learning. It is better to know emotion than to be without it.

I know how to exist. Existing is bedroom confinement; a phone with no callers; unblemished pale skin; an empty stomach; nothing to say or express. I have merely existed for too long. Living is being mad, sad, happy, and confused; being with friends, upset with friends, and in love with friends; hugging, touching, and even hitting.

Bug bites, scratches, a broken heart, confused thoughts - I'm not complaining. I want to come out of my comfort zone.

consider this a record

There will be no record of the darkness beneath the light of summer. Not one photograph or video will be left behind to speak of how I truly spent this season. For all but me, the memories will grow hazy: the coloured tile floors; the nurses' voices and squeaking sneakers; the scents of soap, medicine, and identical dinners reheating in the 4th-story kitchen.

I can't pretend I planned my vacation tis way. Someday, there won't exist a single picture, nor a phone number, to prove where I am right now. But there are still missing patches in the garden where flowers that once smiled were snipped to decorate my hospital room; layers of dust and misuse over my bedroom I should be sleeping in; and a disturbingly pristine bucket list, lacking scribbles, checkmarks or wrinkles.

I'll never bury who I was, where I lived or the memories I made this summer. Unusual as they are, I wouldn't give my experiences for the world. I'm not going to hide parts of my story, like the day we blew bubbles in the garden, waving our wands to release our worries - it was spheres of soap flying through the air to create a whimsical heaven. Or the countless games of Scattegories we played around the hard wooden table, and the shy way she smiled when she won.

I'll move on from this place. There will be summertime leftover to bask in, and years of summers to come. Cameras and conversations won't bring back the secrets of this season, but I will not forget. I see a long journey ahead, and I need every piece of my own history to begin.

the hunt

I'm on a berry hunt, a search for treasure. Some are shy and hide under heart-shaped leaves, while some are  bravely loud: pick me, pick me. These strawberries are precious jewels and I am the scavenger.

But I've always got to hunt for the good amongst the bad. When the walls are closing in and breathing comes difficult, I must fumble for the strings to pull a smile on my face. If I ever were to give up the search, I'd be finished. The hunt shall go on.

The next time I'm almost broken, heaving by the light of the window, I'll hunt for hope. When I'm lying flat beneath the hospital's dotted ceiling tiles (sixty-six holes per square) and fluorescent lights, I'll hunt for my dreams, plans, and goals. Just like looking for berries in our backyard jungle. Simple as that.