Footprints. They’re all a little different – different sizes, different shapes, different textures, different length apart – and they lead to different places, even if those places are just a few feet apart. Sometimes they’re imprints in mud or snow or indents in the sand, sometimes they’re dents in the grass, and sometimes they’re just wet or dirty patterns on the pavement. They may fade with time or the elements, or we may try to cover them up, but they’ll always be there, somewhere, the ghosts of the footfalls that got us to where we are today.
Did I just use the word footfalls?
How very writer-ish of me. Which is funny because I’m not a writer at all. No patience for it. It’s weird, ‘cause I can sit and scrapbook for hours, but getting me to write an essay or even a short story for creative writing was like pulling teeth. (I would know; I work for a dentist.) I guess I’m just better with the visual arts than language arts. This is clearly evidenced by the way that I’m totally getting off topic here. That was always a problem for me in grade school – “Stay on topic,” my teachers would write on my essays, in the places where I would ramble off on tangents like I am now, and then mark me down for Focus.
Focus… yeah, focus, Claire.
So as I was saying… or getting to the point of saying, anyway…
Footprints sort of represent life. Or, at least, different stages of life, those milestones we all cross to get to wherever we end up.
I may be starting to sound deep here, but trust me, I’m really not. (Did I just imply that I’m shallow then?) And like I said, I normally have no patience for writing. I’ve never been good at keeping a diary or journal or, these days, a blog. My scrapbook fulfills the same purpose through pictures.
But if I did keep a diary/journal/blog, these would be the days of my life that would stand out.
Days of my life – ha – makes it sound like a soap opera.
Then again, I guess my life has been a little like a soap opera in recent years…
