Monday, April 14, 2014
A little creative piece I wrote today reminiscing on spring days back home.
The warmest day of the season always calls for a really long run, exploring a new road, a new route, a new memory. Blue skies whisper her name, beaconing her to bask in the sunlight creating shadows between the hills painted in the distance. She longs to be carefree like the girl in her old photo albums: the long-limbed, long-haired wishful thinker and wanderlust wonderer.
Love-worn sneakers scrape the crumbling blacktop adjacent to the green grass - so soft that as a child she would always lie in it; she’d swim with her arms and legs in a snow-angel motion, wishing that her hair could smell as good and feel as good as the spring texture tickling her neck. . .
The yellow of the season’s daffodils reflect under her chin as she clutches the bunch just freshly picked from the front yard. She skips with joy toward the kitchen door, eager to greet Mum with spring’s present when she arrives home.
On lazy afternoons like these, she runs inside to change for soccer practice, making sure her socks match her t-shirt and that her pink water bottle is filled with the appropriate ice to water ratio.
Sitting on the counter, she searches for the egg kit her Mum had promised to buy the day before.
“I hope it’s tie-dye,” she thinks to herself, pushing aside paprika and coriander spice as she rummages through the cupboard where secrets were never actually kept hidden.
She hops off the counter, the wood softly creaking under her weight as she runs over to the table to arrange the flowers in the old glass vase.
“Perfect,” she sweetly smiles, crossing her arms over her chest.
The breeze calls her name once again, gently whipping through the door’s screen. Outside she returns to her spot beneath the cherry blossom tree, at its peak with pink and white buds overlapping the shapes in the sky. Her braided hair warms in the sun, resting on her favorite pillow: an Adidas soccer ball.
With a white daisy in her hand, she returns to her daydreams under the clouds: “He loves me, he loves me not. . .”