It’s been a few weeks, but I’m back and joining in for my 5 minutes. Won’t you join me over at Lisa Jo’s? Here is my five-minute free write
This weeks prompt: WIDE
I remember lying on the plastic lounge chairs in my mother’s garden. The lines making their mark into my legs, criss-cross lines, turning them to basket weave. My eight year old limbs warmed golden and the shimmer of faint downy hair under the sun’s heat, that spoke of youth. Before the days of shaving and painted toe nails and trying hard.
The days when I no longer skinned my knees on my Powell Peralta skateboard or pedaled hard, sailing my banana seat bike down the middle of our road until the streamers flew back from the handlebars and my hair whipped long, trailing behind me.
Those summers I knew wide spaces and deep breaths and the glorious love of days when the sun sinks late and mom’s voice doesn’t call until 8:30 when winter would have had me tucked into the dark already.
And on some of those days we drive the winding path to the mountain. The narrow road that curves and crosses.
We drive slower there because the path is narrow, the solid line marking off our side of things. And just when the journey seemed agonizing and our legs cramped from the hot seat and the windows blew hot air on our faces, it would break, a turn onto gravel and dust and the tunnel of trees and shadow, into a wide open space.
When I picture grace, it is a wide open thing. A field stretched far and gaping, raw anticipating our footfalls. We race through the tall grass, trampling it down and we run, faces red and panting toward the goal.
The cool of the water running through our fingers and over toes and knees and finally with one consuming gulp, our heads duck beneath the river and we are carried, rocked in the gentle rush. And when we come up for air, we always find our way back.