Laying on a hammock in Old Creek Canyon watching dark clouds gather and smelling the mixture of warm rain and dirt roads.
Dancing on a falooka in an unfamiliar land, hearing an unfamiliar rhythm, imitating an unfamiliar movement.
Running Izaak Walton trails with Csilla and syncing to her pattern of breathing.
Watching my dad paint while we listen to music of the best kind.
In a hot yoga class for two.
About to embark on an adventure using public transportation. And there is no time frame and no need to rush.
Listening to Jayk strum some chords on his guitar and sing some Bob Dylan tunes, his pitch dipping in and out of tune.
Taking a nap in the shade of a tree. It's hot, but not humid.
Dancing in my 560 N 845 E kitchen to some raunchy music with roommates. The smell of baked goods is filling the room. Also, we pray the mold under the refrigerator doesn't continue to spread.
Naked.
Starting a field hockey game. I'm excited, but mostly apprehensive.
Listening to a good o' tale, one that has been recited countless times, one that is hilariously familiar.
At a market place. No one has regard for personal space or control of their personal volume.
In a playful wrestling match with Jess, only this time I am the one who has biceps and he is the one that resorts to biting.
On a long walk at a late hour.
Listening to my mom hum the harmony of a Carpenters' song and secretly wishing I had her low, smooth voice. I will never admit that to her.
In the middle of a night game. Screams and laughter are echoing.
Barefoot and sandy.
At the beginning of a road trip with Ynna, only this time she's driving and I'm in the passenger seat with my feet up on the dashboard. Instead of gummies, our snacks consist of ham roll ups and ice-cold slurpees. We swap deep, dark secrets.
Responding to Jacy's never-ending string of questions, trying to be witty, trying to make her laugh.
Pretending to be asleep, only I am under the covers with a book and a flashlight.
Drinking a cold glass of sobia from a juice stand. I use a community, glass mug. Sometimes they rinse it off, sometimes the residue of a stranger remains.
Running across the bottom of the ocean weighed down by a massive rock. I'm safe below the unbridled waves.
Thumbing through Jory's never ending hair, fighting sass with some more sass.
Stealing a mango from a neighbor's tree and passing it down a long line of Soliais.
Playing with Liz in an abandoned St. John's tree house, practicing drills in case of a freak tornado or hurricane or fire or volcano eruption. Next up our playground is a log, but we can only see a pirate ship.
Sitting on the porch of a Lancaster row house listening to the racket of a banjo. It's a summer day. And there are no mosquitos.
