Barefoot

Barefoot. I rarely do that anymore.
Too many thorns and sharp spines.
It takes too long for the little itchies to heal.
And drives me nuts at night.

Last year it was January
before the scabs finally stopped reforming.

No. And rarely even flip flops.
I remember when my mother stepped on a bee.
She had to soak her foot in a bucket for
what seemed like a long time to a seven year old.

But in India, on my first trip back in 2001,
I was taken to a mountain. Walking up
the rocky trail, I passed
scores of women walking down, huge bundles of
wood on their backs, their feet protected only
by cheap flip flops. Mostly blue and white rubber.
Not that they needed them, I remember thinking.
The soles of their feet protruded outward a bit.
Almost like hooves.
Years of hardening.
Their feet told the stories of their hardened lives.

Later, riding in my Ambassador tourist taxi,
we passed a woman, bundle of wood on her back,
sitting on one of the short tapered concrete
cylinders used to mark the outer edges
on the switchbacked mountain roads.
She was taller than average. Young. Well,
younger than I was at the time. Maybe
thirty. Stronger than average. Built strongly
with robust bones and muscles. Maybe our
eyes met.

She sat on the edge of the road. I will never
forget the look on her face. “Is this all there is?”
She, nameless woman of north India, probably
remains one of the biggest factors in my belief
that even if all of us don’t get reincarnated,
some of us do.