walking after you

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, as I picked at my feet. Just the post bath ritual of scraping and removing the calluses of the day--just to see where the bottom layers of skin had taken me. I smelled my wrinkly feet as usual; horrified by the odor, but breathing deep anyways for the sake of my own posterity. Tonight, however, for some reason that I can't quite figure out, my feet didn't smell like my feet. Instead, the layers of dead skin smelled like you. Like your slightly intimidating dog after he rolledinsomethinggross. It was unpleasant, for sure. Perhaps even foul. Yet underneath the refuse I could smell the memories of the two of you traipsing through the woods out back. I could smell your revolt as you abandoned the schoolhouse for a higher, treetop curriculum. I sensed a childhood of reckless abandon lived under a shelter of love. It was as if my feet became paws became your feet walking through six acres of native wilderness knowing every branch mudflat big mama clay and creek. I smelled the past that lingers into the present and will probably continue for the sake of your own posterity. It was nice, not to be afraid of Daniel for once, if only through the connection of our scent. And although I still smell like me, perhaps I smell like you two, too.