Two feet on the floor. Jump jump jump, twirl, spin, tumble, fall, laugh. Two feet drum against the carpeted wood, she lays there staring up, talking about the lights, their shape, the lines that something scratched into the white paint back before her birth. Two feet stand on mine, we dance across the floor. Two feet hang over the side of the couch, the only thing I see. These feet used to wiggle behind her as she crawled. They used to kick against my hips as she rode in the wrap for hours out of every day. They used to nestle in my belly as we slept curled into each other in those spaces of time before she would need to eat. Those feet used to kick against my ribs before I even knew her name, her gender, the color of her eyes or the scent of her hair. Two feet, slightly brown from the stain of the dirt and grass that she runs barefoot in almost every day. Funny little toddler toenails and those chubby padded soles that are only just beginning to show their arch. Tiny child, so big and so small.
Posted on: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 19:23:20 +0000
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