I take long walks through town and I try to see with my childhood eyes. I imagine myself closer to the ground; seeing, really looking, at the microcosm beneath my feet. Kneeling down in wet dirt, I watch as tiny bugs hop Jesus-like across the surface of a babbling brook. The knees of my jeans saturate with earth, and I remember what it felt like when I could smell spring.
Above me, a gull cries out. The sound echoes, takes me back to when I ran barefoot, though ill-advised, along the rocky beaches where I grew up. Gulls above my head, circling for breakfast, swooping down indifferent to me as I covered my toes in sand.
Walking down a long street, I let myself feel small instead of feeling humongous, vulnerable, and naked on the internet. The Internet, where I am up for constant review. I like to feel small, the sky expanding above me in all directions, none of which are straight down.
My only goal this summer is to live my life this way. I am getting older and my life and career are sure to be dominated by technology. My sense have already been dulled and it terrifies me. I want just one more summer to explore, to curiously feel the grass as I sit in the yard. I don’t remember the last time I felt it, to be honest.
I want to see what my house looks like — from the outside.
I want to run straight in to the wind until my breath hitches.
I want to be caught in a downpour and surrender.
I want to wear mosquito bites and tree branch abrasions proudly.
I want to let my hair get salty-damp, then soft as only saltwater can make it. I want real beach hair.
I want to get lost in nature, racing home as the sun goes down, the air still thick with summer late into the night.
I want to come home and wash the souls of my feet of mud and spit out black flies.
