The Life and Death of Footsteps
I will tell you how your footsteps are different from mine. Step into my shoes — they are made for walking, biking, hiking, jogging, at least that’s what I thought they’d do until I realized that your sole was different from mine.
You take Birkenstock of your life never carrying around trauma or tiptoeing around strife — whereas I have Air Maxed out all the ways in which I chose to be seen — to occupy space publicly — while treading lightly. This land is your land — this land is my Timberland. Perhaps it is that bounce or swag that confidently sets me in motion — propelling me onward that is a threat. And because of what this represents — I am hunted every time I step outside of my safe space. But I have been here before and know all too well when the ground beneath me begins to shift — and I lose footing, that I will concretely reunite with the sidewalk and she will weep the blood of my ancestors leaving behind an abstract obituary in the cracks.
Gone are the days of jogging, hiking, biking, walking — my mark to be imprinted on another path. Gone are the days of being wrapped in a blanket that once made me warm and secure — as I now lay within the confinement of a cold bag with instructions on a piece of cardboard that read: attach to toe — a piece of cardboard that list descriptors — cause of death and race. And there’s the difference — when race is cause of death.
dedicated to Ahmaud Arbery.
thank you for reading my work.
if you liked this piece, you’ll love this one.
