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I like to think of me, little, running between houses afraid of the dense dark, keeping it a secret from everyone how much I loved the rustle of the leaves against the vacuum of warm summer air. I like to think of that wind and my calloused summer feet, especially the accumulation of hours spent soaking splintered limbs in pots of hot water. I like to think of the rawness of my hair after the ocean then sun then ocean (then maybe shower, but always sleep) I like to absorb the physicality of it all tired sunny eyes, accidentally exercised body, knotty hair. running barefoot, too much sand, hot road. You’d think all of this would be easy to recreate. But when I return, I’m rarely running between houses at dusk, I wear shoes on the deck, and shower every day, and the secret I think least about, is my love for those rustling leaves. |
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Sophie Laing is an upstate New Yorker who has been trying her hand at poetry for several years now. She is currently a first-year law student and hopes to fight for access to justice as well as make the law a more creative and interdisciplinary field. |
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