After the rain the forest is damp and our soft
bodies ache for these mossy footpaths.
Chronic pain turns to velvet. Trees greet my
denial with steady thrumming. Even the
evergreens acknowledge their condition.
Fir needles fall from your hair and circle the drain.
Gather them in a soapy bouquet. My body is sore so I
hover above it like a specter. I clean my calves and
I watch the shower floor flood with murky
jasper stained water. The drain is clogged so I
kneel to pull your hair from the drain. I pull
leaves and branches from the drain. I pull
myself from the drain and I am brand
new as I wash my brain with pine scented soap.
Of course, the aches still linger. I can feel them
prodding me with the reminder that I am human.
Quietly, age and ailment will greet us. We must
repeat this process in order to continue. We must
see what the trees do in the rain. We must get dirty
to get clean. Like when we went on a long hike
under a heavy rainfall. I forgot my mortality with the
views. We were soaked, numb, and freezing.
We bought rain gear the next day. Now I keep an
extra poncho in my trunk. We will spend our
years watching what the forest floor can grow,
zigzagging mushrooms through patches of death.
Harmony Mooney is an elementary school teacher and writer living on the North Coast of California with her husband, two cats, and two dogs. Harmony likes to use writing as a way to savor the tiny moments of everyday life and connect with other people.