My toes live in a different hemisphere, an alternate reality. Like the ocean that surrounds us all, (there is really only one if you think about it,) it's right there all the time but what do we really know about it?
I sometimes think of my feet as old buildings in an old city; cool marble wearing soft moss, shedding shards of ancient mortar from its crevices as each year wears it a little closer its utter disembodiment.
My feet are a mystery. What stories would they tell if I could bring my ear close enough to hear? If I were limber as a dancer or slender as grape vine, I could bend myself to their invisible lips and let their secrets spill like wine and wash over me.
In Summer, I walk barefoot for miles, crossing the river, climbing and descending wooded hills in loose circles of sunlit afternoon. I look through the treetops at the sky and feel the warmth of the wind's caress. All the while, my feet wince at the uneven ground; stick and stone, skin thickening with each step.
I cut my claws, banishing them to the dust bin. Short and new, the remainder reminds the animal that I am at my very root that what we make of our lives is not what we are born for.
If I could be reborn into myself, alive in my natural state with no knowledge of human invention, no calendar, how would I greet the sun's approach and retreat? What would night be? The seasons?
I dream of an ending; people running frantically from their own means of self destruction. How soon do we forget? How many times have we forgotten?
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