Dance in the Air

I know those feet, those toes. They used to wave at me from a crib and tap dance in the air when I approached. They were fat then and smelled of powder. You rushed to put one directly in front of the other when you would tightrope walk the top rail on our old deck, arms outstretched for balance, giddy with anticipation of doing a cannonball into the pool below. Certainly those feet have seen a lot of sand, but not a lot of shoes. Your Grandma marveled at how you ran barefoot, laughing as you led the way, up the steep gravel drive of our country house in Virginia. Your two year old feet oblivious to the large, sharp chunks of gravel freshly laid. Of course I've seen those dirty pads, curled together and sticking out from under your covers, after running so hard all day that you collapsed into a coma-sleep so deep it seemed you had been abducted by aliens who left only your inert body behind. Those feet have always moved forward faster than most, reckless, fearless. They've walked in sandals wet from puddles of urine still warm from water buffalo you paused to speak with in Thailand. Footprints all over Southeast Asia can compare notes with those in Argentina and Brazil. Who was this girl? Where is she going? Planting her feet on a surfboard off the South of France? Skipping into a Tapas bar in Spain? You probably did wear shoes there. I know those feet that were dangling from a perch on Table Mountain yesterday. They point out to Capetown and beyond, where the waters of the South Atlantic meet those of the Indian Ocean. That junction has long tested the meddle of sturdy ships and their captains. Can you see them now? Out there battling high seas? Will you soon kick your feet in those turbulent waters? I would ask about the path you run right now, where is it going, where does it lead... But I know that the footprints on your path are only visible when looking back, something you may do someday. But I suspect that won't be anytime soon.