One day, I went for a walk, and I wrote a little bit about what I saw. There is a girl in this story named “Sara,” but I promise she is not based on anyone I know. She is a girl I observed in my neighborhood one day, and she needed a “nice girl” name. Transcriptions are below the images.
I was wandering around my neighborhood day dreaming about finding my calling when I was hit by a bus.
A young girl was waiting to take something heavy from her father’s hands. It was going to be heavier than she expected. I could tell by the way her arms were outstretched and the placid look on her face.
He moved slowly. His nature was lumbering. His bones were heavy. Everything around him looked light light light. His name was Thomas. He thought of himself as a rock tossed into a pond at birth and resting in the mud ever since.
Sara, unprepared, held her smooth arms out. She could have been made of plastic with arms that hinge like a dolly. Straight elbows, straight knees, flat feet. Eyes that open and clothes. [I meant to write “close,” but I kinda liked my mistake.]
Her hinges would succumb to the weight of the box. The simplest of physics. The clatter as it landed made her jump. He’d look, sigh. She’d pick it up.
I cannot go inside that house, but I know it looks like mine. They all do.
I know she goes barefoot because she loves the strangeness of earth. Her skin is as thin as an idea, and she was easily invaded by ground.
Everything about him was heavy.
His perspective was a boulder.
She spent her life learning to unmake boulders.
Her heart always felt like the moment before reaching air when you are gazing at the sun and a perfect blue sky through leaky goggles and several feet of water and you want to breathe.
She always knew she would survive, but what if she didn’t?