Rachel Jones
Since walking was part of my personal improvement plan, I slid on my shoes. It was after the neighbor’s kid’s birthday party, but before dinner, so I had to hurry. Since I own Vans, Hokas, and Chuck Taylors, I picked the leather Birkenstock mules for my stroll. I wanted footwear equally committed to coverage and exposure. Since alone time was part of my personal improvement plan, I loaded the baby into the stroller. I could’ve left her home, but I wanted a reason to leave. Since it’s important to reset my nervous system, I chose to raw-dog the sound of sprinklers and the rumbling interstate. I didn’t even put my ear buds in when the baby cried. Since it was May in central Indiana, checkered flags flapped from front porches. I didn’t have my tomatoes in the ground. Since the leather grain chafed the soles of my feet, at a half mile, I removed them. I didn’t care about the pebbles and stones poking the pads of my feet; every sting meant I was alive. Since I once walked around barefoot for a whole summer, I envisioned myself as twenty again. I dodged broken beer bottles; the shards occasionally glinted a warning. Since I didn’t have health insurance, I should’ve been more pragmatic. I beamed as peers observed me enter the stacks barefooted. Now, since my suburb is occupied with retirees and young families, I imagined a grandma shaking her head, tsking my endeavor from her window. Sometimes I secretly delight in freaking out the neighbors, it reminds me of when my mistakes were low stakes. Sometimes, I think about my baby’s tenacity, walking and falling; a destiny of progress. Since I was almost home, I settled on air fryer chicken for dinner, it’s hard to screw up.
Rachel is a writer from Indianapolis. Her work can be found, or is forthcoming, in Ponder Review, MUTHA Magazine, and The Kurt Vonnegut’s Museum & Library Journal, among others. She holds a B.A. in English from Indiana University. Find her on Substack: @notsohansol0o
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