Passat Baby

When I lived at home, there was a window on the second floor that opened up to the roof. I would sit there on cloudy days and wait for the moment when the wind picked up.  I could fly.

I used to write there. It was comforting to be so far removed from the ground, from anything that actually made me feel apart of the earth. I could see the dirt, imagine the particles scraping my toes, but I wasn’t there. I loved the point of view.

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March 21, 2017

I walked to class this morning with dew on my shoes. The soles flattened each shoe-sized patch of grass, taking the cold and wet of the early morning drops along with my quickening steps. I thought about how when I was little, my mom would drop me off at my grandmother’s before she went to work. It was always early like this; the sky is light blue and expanding.

 I remembered how my mom would carry my brother inside, holding my hand as she walked into my grandmother’s house. I would trot behind her with my shoes in tow, baby feet squishing through the grass. Once inside, I fell asleep on my grandmother’s couch with damp heels waiting for the later morning, when I would wake up and pick out the grass shards from between my toes. 

I guess that’s why I ended up slipping off my sandals before class this morning. I saw the dew, and I needed to know – everything still reminds me a bit of home.