The Writer’s Legs Speak Up On A Nice Day

It’s been ages since she has let us see more than a passing glimpse of sunlight. We have been ensconced in black legging husks and jeans that rub more than she would care to admit and and the high zippered boots so favored by the autumn-obsessed. She has looked on us with apathy, even though we tried to make her proud just yesterday, when she strapped us into weight machines and curled us back and forth, up and down, stretching and building us into something she might deem useful. But we are useful. Sometimes she notices. 

Today has brushed the kiss of summer and the promise of warmth along her proverbial collar bones (the real ones are also entombed in fabric) and so she let us hit the open air. Pale and stubbly and slightly bow shaped as we are, we have finally been reminded of existence beyond the covered. We feel like puppies straining forward, tethered to a body but so ready to go, conquer, move forward and forward and forward. As it happens, fresh air is pleased to dance merrily along dimples and jiggle. As it happens, spring has arrived and she had no choice but to resurrect her shorts and let us out.

So we carried her to the library with confidence and cadence, feeling a kinship with the convertibles as they ambled past. “We know the feeling,” we would say to them if, you know, we weren’t legs. 

But the convertibles, top down, open to the elements, unafraid, caught her attention as well. We took a moment to rattle a reminder, which moved from ankles to knees to hips to brain: being exposed sometimes is a very good thing. Unveiling lets some clarity get in so as to swarm the clutter. Stepping out of the garage and onto the street and onward into town can help one recall what it is to resurface after winter, to be raised up after all signs point to death. 

So we helped her cut through parking lots using muscles she had disregarded and helped her point our toes toward home and helped her back up the stairs to reach the arms that feel most safe. The windows were open and she left us out, proud and imperfect and moving ahead. 

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