The things we keep in our pockets

I reach into my pockets to escape the cold, and the tips of my fingers touch rocks.

Colorful, storyful, brought to and from places.

Holding impressions of earlier encounters with water or dirt.

Feeling mostly smooth, and a little powdery.

Not registering as extra weight.

Appropriately placed, grounding as a weighted blanket grounds you.

I move back through signs of winter and register faint traces of spring.

Citrus smells. Glacier lilies trying to bloom.

Fresh mud spread by bike tires and puppy paws.

Little traces of sweat.

Baby goats and cows and horses.

Outdoor seating becoming unstacked.

Soups paired with colder dishes and fruitier smells.

Impounded rocks safe to run over on winding trails.

The moon and the sun in the sky as once.

Things you remember as you set foot into airport waiting areas.

Taking something away, weighty and yet light.

Lighter than previously.

Grounded by something that fits in a pocket.

Fingers uncurling for a familiar sensation.

Memories loosely close.

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Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.