Barefoot

I rarely go barefoot anymore.

I'm either wearing socks, or shoes, or my stockings. (I wear compression stockings every day for medical reasons.)

I don't walk outside. I don't get to feel the rough gravel under my feet, or curl my toes into the grass.

I miss the solid feeling of the ground beneath my feet. Feeling connected to the earth.

I point my toes and take little leaps over the prickly pine needles. The grass is long; it tickles my ankles. The moist soil greets the soles of my feet. I step on something squishy. I'm pretty sure it was a mushroom, but I don't really want to know.

My leap lands me on a large flat stepping stone. Artificially made to look natural, my feet immediately know the difference. Too uniform intexture, the edges are too round.

I hop lightly from one to the other, avoiding the stray pieces of bark that have made their way onto the path.

Another skip lands me on rough concrete. The worn down texture, with all its grooves and bumps, gives away its age. The small bits of gravel and sand, indistinguishable from the concrete according to my eyes, are shap outcroppings against my tender skin.

The mat outside the door is soft and slightly damp. It gently caresses my feet as the wipe the earth from them. I prepare to step inside, onto the cold, unforgiving tile.