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It was dusk, but warm. I was descending from Moon Hill, both of us saturated with trees and green air. Flop, flop, my birks slapped the little trail next to the pavement. I stopped. An irrestistable urge to take off my shoes swept through me. I mean, life was awakening under my feet, and i knew it. What's more, my feet knew it, and they were itching to be free. It happens every spring, and then for the next five months you'll find me grumbling if I ever have to put my shoes back on. (Of course, when i say "shoes," I mean sloppy, happy yellow birkenstocks--the best kind--but they're still shoes.) I hesitated in my desire. "Wait til tomorrow, when the sun's out," I coaxed myself. "Wait til you have some time." Nope, I had an itch. It had to be taken care of. I slipped off my shoes (which I'm becoming expert at doing after living in Korea) and felt the earth with my winter feet, after 5 months of boots and concrete and frozen earth. I padded around like any other 5-year-old, feeling sensual and delicious and utterly me. The earth was soft and warm and alive. Then I slipped my dirty feet back into my birks and slapped back onto the concrete and down the hill towards home. Slap Happy, ck [2003-04-06]
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