The Dust of Childhood
The taste of dry earth always brings me back to the heat of a summer afternoon, the kind where the air feels thick enough to chew. It is a gritty, metallic tang that settles on the back of the tongue, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of sun-baked grass and distant woodsmoke. I remember the feeling of bare feet against a road that had been scorched by the sun, the surface shifting like coarse sugar under my toes, demanding a rhythm of quick, light steps. There is a specific, hollow ache in the chest when you are small and the world feels vast, yet you are anchored by the simple, sticky humidity of a friend’s hand held tight. We were not thinking of time; we were only aware of the pulse of the ground beneath us and the way the wind carried the promise of rain. Does the earth still hold the imprint of those small, restless feet, or has the wind smoothed the path clean again?
Ryszard Wierzbicki has captured this fleeting, tactile grace in his image titled Kids by the Road. It reminds me that connection is often found in the quiet spaces between us, waiting to be felt. Can you still recall the texture of the road you walked when you were young?
