I’m a little past the seventh month in my twenty-fourth year. For the past 120 minutes, I’ve been lying on a cobalt blue velour couch and tending to my friendships with excess and not duty. As of 26 hours ago, the lower half of my hair has been dyed purple.
Earlier today, I met Deborah when she made eye contact with me on Walnut Street at 10:41 a.m. I could already hear the tambourine slamming against someone’s hands and another someone pumping the organ but she reassured me that I the service had just started at Greater Holy Temple Church of God in Christ. After she embraced me — a gesture I responded to with effusive positive feedback — she told me that her hug wouldn’t be the last I received all morning. Within an hour, the congregation proved her right.
The sensation of touch still feels dull on my finger tips and the skin between my toes from my ill-fated bike riding adventure through the Illinois woods this afternoon. I will not forget the war that they waged against the tingling and then the numbing and then the shutting down and the trauma of exposure. But I’m coming back for you North Branch bike trail when the sun shines in the Botanical Gardens and I’ve donned my brown sandals for the season. I’ll have the last word against winter.
I miss McKenzie the most intensely whenever Mallory and I meet someone new because I worry they obtain a skewed impression of the Lee Girl brand.