Gabby Lui

by Gabby

Blank, gray pavement,

Marking the boundaries for rows of speeding cars.

A few pebbles here and there,

only obstacles for my sensitive toes.

Our five-year old mindsets burst out of our teenage bodies as

we prepare to corrupt the rain’s remains.

Only miniscule puddles in sight;

Distractions from the monstrous ones ahead.

Beckoning us, illuminating themselves with the sun’s reflections and

the slight start of foliage above; burgundy blurs in the mirrors of water.

We race through the November fog that envelopes the sidewalk,

Searching frantically for the slightest of puddles.

We stomp, water spitting on our faces.

Droplets mixed with remnants of dirt from between the gravel.

Our pruned toes kick murky water to our backs, tinting our white t-shirts with brown speckles.

Soon enough, we’re home.

A mile and a half of pure bliss, finished.

Our heavily soaked jeans saturate the kitchen floor.

We take in the disappointment of my mother’s eyes.

She doesn’t have to say a word in order to get her point across.

I guess it’s back to being mature young adults again