Past and Future by Melanie Pestana YOU SHUT THE CAR DOOR without looking. You’re not looking at the car but up at your past and future all in one. Your walking boots crunch over the gravel in the same way they had then. Was this the same day, only years later, too? You wouldn’t be surprised. Stopping for a breath, you inhale moist grass and the aroma of distant animal manure. The sparkling familiar sun wraps itself around you in warmest greeting. You bend down and undo the knot in each of your laces, allowing you to strip yourself of your boots and grey socks. Clenching your toes in the growth, blades of grass tickle your feet. You pop a shoulder up to readjust the weight of your pack, the boots now off-duty on your back. They wouldn’t be needed anymore, she was never really fond of the chunky things anyhow. Your feet squish with every step, the soil sodden in most places, slightly damp in others. If you breathe deeply enough, you can smell yesterday's rain. And in the blink of an eye, the red wooden door is upon you, the rustic bronze knob crying out to you to be turned, to finally show you what you’ve been missing all this time. But this is no longer yours, it is hers. And now, you must knock.
Gabi Garozzo ‘21 4 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.
