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Friday, June 27, 2008

on the motion of walking

We walk as two people walk on a day where the weather is so nice that it’s unnoticeable.  As we walk we kick along bottle caps or stones, keeping them in front of us and going slightly out of our ways—but never by more than a foot or two—to keep the same cap or stone rolling along with us.  We walk slowly and quietly.  As if we’re making a final trip towards crucifixion or combing the line of the beach where shells were deposited at the crest of high tide, steadily searching for unmarred ones to collect in a bucket and proudly show to our parents (all of whom are now dead, both sets of two, and none of them got to see their children in love).  Her and I, comfortable with walking and touching or just walking near one another without touching, are walking down a sidewalk so familiar that we could probably do it with our eyes closed if we took it slow and held hands.  A bag of groceries—red and green peppers, onions, potatoes, celery, carrots, beef, a few other colorful and olfactory pleasing things for our stew—swings along with my arm and the tired summer breeze that feels like warm, sleeping breath.  I can’t smell the food in the bag, but I can’t wait to come up behind my wife while she’s cooking—after I kick off my shoes and trade my tie for a tee-shirt—and take her streamline waist in my hands and kiss the top of her head where her hair parts and tell her how good it smells.