Burdock & Corduroy
I recently found this on a scrap piece of paper living as a bookmark in a half-read, sadly-forgotten book.
My soul wanders through the forest of the world. At the end of my days, I will remove boots from tired (but dry) feet and inspect my pant legs for any stray burdock which has lasted the whole journey through. “God’s velcro,” its hooks and snares grip my corduroy soul for dear life. The burdock of past loves, of precious memories, of existential doubt and sacred reassurance. They will stick and be shaken off–discarded in the bushes outside my house, left to cling to those who come after me from the place of my kin.
My corduroy soul, ridged and musical as I walk along, keeps time with this heart that tends to stutter step like the brook babbling its way through the thicket. I wish I could bring you here. But, I don’t know you yet, and mom and dad may have sold the house by the time I do. Maybe I’ll just have to write it for you, because I want you to know the woman I am now as much as the little girl I was before. Even though that girl is getting harder and harder to remember by the day. There are only echoes. She comes back at the smell of fresh cut grass and lilac or lighter fuel and charcoal briskets on a summer night. She walks home to me out of the clearing, trail-mix bag empty from an afternoon of bandana lunches and playing make believe until it came true. She returns full with the secret joys of woodland creatures and dryads you must strain to see through sun streams in the trees.