Our Virginia foot traffic as a small history: smudging our varying arches along ridges of healthy-fielded mountains. The skin of boulders holds onto our touch and tucks rattlesnakes into the earth. Waterfalls pulled the blue of our veins to the near-surface as our toes submerged to rocks steamed with glacier water. We carved our middle names into trees too thick at the trunks to be blank of any attempts to be more than we are.
Where is the night of our boots flung off, slicing the cheeks of bathroom air, peeling off clothes laced with redding shoulder blades and the salt of our pores, stripping down to our New Jersey underwear, and eyelids heavy as blueberry twigs hung in water droplets after a hard summer rain?
In the jacuzzi that night, we emptied a full bottle of lavender bubble bath into the water and slipped in with our young bodies and 8 servings of spaghetti in a large pan. In between bites from the passing plate, our hands wrung the muscles back from their micro-tears, slowing the blood flow. We dabbed the Virginia mud from our skin. Leaving the light switch unloved as red and yellow prism light fell through the pentagonal corner window, we had not yet curated our halls of fear within us; destinations were only beginnings still. The sound of stray noodles plopping into the water was the only alarming sound: a history I’ve had a hard time giving up.
BIO: Sara Brown grew up in the rural farmlands and on the coast of South Jersey. She received her BA in literature from Stockton University in December 2018 and just started the MFA program at University of Nevada Las Vegas this fall with a Graduate Assistantship. She loves to read about travel, rural life, and women’s rights, and is currently renovating a school bus for her and her fiancé to travel the country with after they get married in June.
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