Feeling Alive

I was born barefoot, twice.

The first time I was new: a body made of skin and blood and 10.1 ounces of chub.  I cried in astonishment, and fear, and excitement.  It was cold.  It was strange.  It was my turn to live.

The second time I knew: layers of padding protecting my soul--shed.  I felt wet sand cling to the crevices between my toes, and the sting of choral cut into my thoughts.  My legs leaped along the embedded barriers.  I laugh in astonishment, and fear, and excitement. It was real.  It was exhilarating. It was life.

And now I know, baring the barefooted babes, we plod along: I with calloused pads, leading life through every step.  I feel each pebble push into my heel.  My toes are crooked and cracked.  I rejoice in astonishment, and fear, and excitement.  It is hard.  It is hopeful.  It is living.

I will die barefoot, once.