Step.

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I walk while counting every step. Slowly, but surely. My hips sway side to side, milking every movement. Like slow motion. Silent attention. But my eyes are focused on the floor. I see Rachel, a year younger, in the school hallway. She scurries, shuffling her feet on the synthetic floor. Slouching from 3 bags hanging off her shoulders. One for knitting, the other school work, and one for makeup. I call her bag lady. She calls me a b****. We laugh.
I come home and my mom hobbles in the kitchen like a pirate with a peg leg. Arthritis came from raising five kids by herself, but not taking medicine comes from wanting attention. Beauty is found in her pain. Colette runs through the door. Each step pounds on the kitchen tile. Sturdy and ready. Confident in everything that comes her way. The star of the 6th grade basketball team, her posture brags to us.
At night, when we all sit around the TV, we give our feet a rest. Our legs stretch out, our backs release their kinks. Together we get ready for tomorrow’s day of walking.





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