I walk barefoot in the stiff grass of an 80-degree day, winter only three days out.
It's the first time since late April that I've gone without shoes further than across the room or about the house momentarily. Supporting my arch
had been paramount and a single pair of shoes saw me through summer and into August; two new pair were bought for the school year, and all the cute heels I adored were given away or donated. But I have
missed connecting to the earth, to touch, certain needs involuntarily squelched by
other needs, the integral by the urgent.
In the distance, the painter’s radio plays a local
Hispanic station and I was content to sit on the step, feet bare on the warm
concrete until I rose to walk row by row watching the ground, watching my feet,
shoeless and toes painted bright in Neiman Marcus Red. I walk and stop and stoop and stand and walk again. Slow.
Pockets bulging with pecans, feeling each prick and poke none too gentle on
tender soles, I walk anyway. I walk because I can. I walk because I need, and because I know I am not quite there yet.
