I’m a feral child of cut off shorts, skinned knees and barefoot summers, of afternoons wading knee deep in icy cold creeks winding through backyard suburban forests, of doing backflips on the trampoline until my head hurt and then sunning myself like a reptile on the warmth of that black nylon, staring up through a canopy of gently swaying trees, dreaming of a boy, and what his lips might feel like pressed against mine.
That feral girl still lives under my skin. She stands with me on Ostara watching winter’s last breath blow mighty, gusty winds through the trees. She feels every buffet and tendril of white hair that whips around my aging crown. I feel her childlike wonder of the world around me. We feel One with all that is. This is our happy place, where we feel seen, and free, and loved beyond all comprehension. Where lifelong traumas and wounds no longer exist. There is only our feet on the ground and the wind against our skin. In these moments, we mend what is broken.
I live for windy days.
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