She was raised in jeans and dirt under the sun and open as the wind and dirt comb through her hair. She goes to the kitchen sink, washes her forearms and cups her hands underneath, lowers her face into them like she's done before in grief but this time, tasting sweat and something cool and clean together, she feels refreshed and worn out at the same time.
And when they make a story using each square of the walkway, the chalk blue dusted and white on their palms, they'll walk back inside certain they've made the best of a day they could have either rejoiced in or cursed about.
All of us together, we move order into the scared and chaotic parts of our lives, interiors that won't risk telling. A sock matched. A dish washed and dried. A plant watered and a daughter's long, golden hair combed and braided. She puts her feet in motion hoping to lend a small something, not through her own effort but through her (finally) giving up, then lifted beyond the floor and into clean clothes, a shovel now in her hands digging potential and burying the past, as the saying goes.
And what if everything she knows seems familiar, too simple? Perhaps, finally, she's found the truth she stopped everything to find.
I would like to say so. So I will.