Run and See

The sun is bright, and the snow is melting. The sounds are of cars, driving, to and from unknown places. Icy patches are scattered across the sidewalk, and my feet thump, thump, thump, on the concrete. The air is cool, but my body is warm. I am running with my friend, and we are just steadily jogging. At the moment, I am not able to go fast, but take it one step at a time.

I hear my breaths and my shoes and sense the spring-like air, even though it is January. I notice everything around me. How the pine tree's branches lean across the sidewalk, making a shady underpass. The empty streets. The few cars, heading to different destinations. And an old woman, sitting alone in a sun hat and unzipped jacket, revealing a blue sweater. On her lap a little dog rests. She waves. My friend waves back. They both smile. The woman goes back to watching.

And I wonder, what is it she watches so contently? Is it people? Or, is it just the air, so crisp, and white, and the way it feels on warm skin? I like to think she watches winter turn to summer, as though we could all sit outside our houses and experience such an event.

What would our days become if we all sat upon our porch steps and watched the sun set and rise? If we let out bodies free, and ran off everything we thought, our skin pink, and heart pumping? I feel unleashed when I run. And the things I see and hear and smell...I know I am a writer when I see these things and wish I had paper. And I know I am a runner when I love cold air and my swinging legs.

And tomorrow I might sit on our hard concrete steps and watch the things around me for no particular reason. Maybe, my feet will take off and down the block I'll fly, hearing words skitter around in my mind, and begin another story.

Summers on the Missouri River

The trees and the eerie dim light called to me. Sweet sounds came from the winds blowing the grasses. Rustling leaves, in various shades of greens and oranges and yellows blended together. Yet the sight that drew me to the very spot was the water. Like a sheet of glass, reflecting the darkening sky, clear and pure. An image unshattered by boats and people, who normally fill the air with lauging and yelling and boat motors.

That was the difference. It was quiet, except for the nature. This was the river uninhabited by children cooling off in it's shallow waters, and adults lounging on the sandbars.

I loved the river. I loved it with people, when it was full of vibrant life, throwing frisbees and building sand castles with neon shovels and buckets. I also loved it as the day drew to an end. While the summer night air warmed me, and I sat alone on a red bench along the riverbank, staring at the water's glossy surface.

The houses on the other bank of the river seemed so far away, yet I could faintly see lights glowing inside windows. A lone boat glided through the water, cutting it, yet it's motor droned quietly. A sound so small it was like a gentle hum.

This place meant so much to me. It was my summer. It was next summer. And it was always there, waiting for the time when the days would grow longer, and the sun would shine. It would wait for fall to turn to winter, winter to spring, and finally, spring to summer.

I would wait too. Not always so patiently, but I would. I couldn't wait to play catch in shallow waters, swim, grill on sandbars, fly vivdly colored kites, and be bathed in sunlight. I am aching for summer.

The Dancing Poem

The air rush of words that came out of my mouth floated dreamily in the air, like a falling feather, landing on black paper. In a thin, curved print, it appeared apon the page. And the story of her became my story too. Ours collided together without making a noise.

There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."

Beautiful People

My feet are numb, my cheeks flushed, and I am flying. My brown curls are frosted with ice, and my heart drums to the rhythm of my skates, cut, cut, cutting into the smooth ice rink. The sky is black like leather. Stars are scattered throughout the sky, like God took a handful and tossed the sparkling light into the darkness. I see the moon, full, with a peacefully eerie orange and green-yellow glow in a ring around it.

I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.

I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.

My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.