Photo courtesy of Beth Anne Garrison

Photo courtesy of Kim Warren

A thought rests in my mind,

about the time when

the wind brushed by

on its way down the gravel road,

conjured spirits of dust

that galloped into the horizon.

Hear the wind whisper.

Remember, remember

when we went

barefoot in December.

The grass was dead.

Yellowed, old, it stretched for miles,

surrounded by barbed wire fences

that protected fields of gold,

ancient relics of winter.

Yet I hear their echo.

Remember, remember

when we went

barefoot in December.

The rain fell with a gentle touch,

a blanket of water covered us;

puddles up to our knees,

turned chocolate by mud.

We’d swim recklessly,

bathe in this mess.

I can hear the puddles sing.

Remember, remember

when we went

barefoot in December.

And when the rain was over,

blades of grass still stuck to our feet,

permanent dirt etched on our clothes.

We’d smile,

as we trampled in the doorway,

Clomp!  Clomp!  Clomp!

Mama shook her head,

pointed her finger at us,

sprayed us with a hose-

grounded us to eternity.

We didn’t care,

The memory chants.

Remember, remember

when we went

barefoot in December.

Years have passed,

and life crawled on.

But when the sunset dies,

and I look across the rooftops,

I see only boarded up windows;

rough, jagged sidewalks;

trash and broken glass,

the latest casualties.

I am reminded fondly,

of countryside

when the wind and the fields,

the rain and the puddles

still made their phantom calls.

And

I realize,

I will always remember,

what it feels like

to go

barefoot

in

December.

Nicholas Woodbury is a twelfth-grade student at Central High School

in St. Joseph, Mo.