May 2010
It rained here at work for a short while... made it a wee bit muggy...
But the smell of the rain mixed with the asphalt and dust stirs memories of walking my way home from Wyco Elementary. I can feel the water making its way through my cheap shoes and my Wrangler blue cords are soaked. The rain washes my stringy hair into my eyes and I can feel the slightest breeze on my face. In these moments there are no worries, I am not home, I am not at school, there are no peers I have my freedom and I am alive.
The slightest scent of sage and rag **** loft in the air and only the laughter that resonates in my mind is louder than the rain against the earth.
The lush green lawns of the area before my home soak up the wetness like vast green sponges and I wonder what a lawn might feel like.
As I near my home anxiety and nervousness rise inside me. My dad is home, he’s not working today, and maybe it’s been a while. I should not have been this wet.
The rain washes the dirt from our yard where grass should be, might have been or one day, I dream, might be. A brown river that matches my own despair runs into the storm drain. So many dreams I think, go the same way.
But the smell of the rain mixed with the asphalt and dust stirs memories of walking my way home from Wyco Elementary. I can feel the water making its way through my cheap shoes and my Wrangler blue cords are soaked. The rain washes my stringy hair into my eyes and I can feel the slightest breeze on my face. In these moments there are no worries, I am not home, I am not at school, there are no peers I have my freedom and I am alive.
The slightest scent of sage and rag **** loft in the air and only the laughter that resonates in my mind is louder than the rain against the earth.
The lush green lawns of the area before my home soak up the wetness like vast green sponges and I wonder what a lawn might feel like.
As I near my home anxiety and nervousness rise inside me. My dad is home, he’s not working today, and maybe it’s been a while. I should not have been this wet.
The rain washes the dirt from our yard where grass should be, might have been or one day, I dream, might be. A brown river that matches my own despair runs into the storm drain. So many dreams I think, go the same way.
