strolling

i went on a walk the summer i was 12 or 13. i noted how it felt to press my heel onto the sidewalk. how the ankle in my foot would adjust to the grade. my knees raised and lowered to the rhythmic clicking of the joints. it was a cool evening, daylight. i walked the culd de sac of my grandfather's home in omaha. i walked. i paid attention.

i was 7 or 8 swinging my legs. i noted how the weight of my lower leg was released from my knees as my feet arched back up. the pleasant weight reapplied as they came back down. how my legs would glide on their internal propulsion, raised and lowered to the joints, clicking. i swung. i was scolded for kicking my mother by accident of this set-loose propulsion. i swung anyway. i paid attention.

there is something to be said about surgery over the gradual wear-and-tear of life: i get the heads up on when to pay attention before another rung breaks from the ladder.

driving. picking up my children. hugging. standing. leaning.

stairs. at least i do not miss stepping.