I miss the green. Not just how it sparkled in the dewy mornings, but how it smelled after a summer rain – wet and earthy, worms and muck and warm puddles.
How it felt thick and sticky on my skin
Crickets at dusk, bullfrogs lulling me to sleep
Do I forget the summers? The one where we walked through the woods together
Through the black widows and bike trails and the oaks and maples and sycamores
You held my hand tight in your big white jeep
Can I remember the freedom I felt? In the forgetting. In the letting go.
I remember spinning, 2 AM. Spinning in a circle of my friends.
Stoned, I leave out the back window and my red skirt flies up as I jump. I understand nothing, but feel all the parts of my body like puzzle pieces floating.
All alone, I walk the path I know so well, to the white pine forest right near the water. It is dusk, and the longer I sit still, the more invisible I become.
The great blue heron skimming the water’s surface.
The doe and fawn drinking at the water’s edge.
The river otter gliding on his back through the sleepy lake.
At dark, I frantically pack up and run the whole way back home.
My best friend, in argument, in salsa dancing, in bread making.
The washing machine overflowed and I jumped on your back as we giggled uncontrollably.
We walk down the street singing Little Birdie the night before you hit the road, the streetlights guiding us to the bar.
I didn’t know then that when you returned, everything would change.
In green, I found the freedom to wander. Felt the panic of being alone. And understood, in fragmented moments, to be grateful.