I took the long way, as I often do. There was no particular reason for this decision, though it was the more scenic route along Henderson Drive. The earth was soggy from a heavy thunderstorm, and the white of frangipani petals caught my eye immediately. I stopped to pick up a few strewn petals and then dropped them playfully, as I quickened my pace. The sun, once hidden, now shone with daring splendor, and I looked up to it, squinting with mouth slightly ajar, as if to soak in its rays. The dull sting of loneliness abated and ambivalence took its place, crowding my heart with a strange kind of emptiness. I was not sad; I was not happy either.
Up ahead, just past the mango tree, the tarred road disappeared, and a row of tall Eucalyptus trees rose to my left, partially obscuring the rows of corn in a field. I remembered Babushka and her rows of wheat in Ukraine. Had they hired the Combine yet? Or the horse and buggy to carry the freshly-cut bales of hay? I rounded the bend in a thoughtful mood, quickly making a mental note of the essay that I had to submit for Mrs. Okonkwo’s English class tomorrow. It was unfinished.
A chirping red bird darted by, then flew up toward the glistening green hill on my right. Dark, porous-looking volcanic rocks lay scattered upon the hill, reminding me of past eruptions. I was startled by how quickly I came upon the Ajullos’ home, a beige colonial bungalow at the foot of the hill. It would be the first of many houses, all of them encircling the hill like irregular beads on an invisible neckless strap. Then I gasped, stopping. I had forgotten about the Lamads’ dog, Bingo--the crazy, old German Shepherd who never failed to come my way during walks, barking and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I hated and pitied him with the same intense passion.
Hesitation overwhelmed me first. I stood for what felt like a long while; my eyes moved down to my feet. The bright yellow straps of my old flip-flops caught my eyes, and lifted my spirits for a quick moment. Should I turn back? What about the first draft of the essay which my friend Olu had accidently put in her book bag? I needed it today. Yet I was ambivalent, infuriatingly so, as usual. I remembered the repercussions of not completing one’s homework—a red and sore right palm and the humiliation of corporal punishment.
Suddenly, a car horn sounded behind me. I lifted my head, which felt heavier now, and then made a quick dash to the side of the road. It was the lightness of my feet that surprised me the most, not the snapping sound that came from my footwear. The car passed by; I sighed in disbelief. Now I was essentially barefoot.
I counted three valid reasons to head back home: Bingo, ambivalence, only one slipper. I felt the dampness of the dark soil beneath my right foot, its sole more vulnerable now, and I understood that not all was right in my world. Someone else, I thought, would probably have turned around by now. This was the most sensible thing to do. Yet here I was, counting reasons, weighing a hypothetical encounter with an old, aggressive dog against a familiar feeling, and ignoring reality. Then I did it. I turned around and ran all the way back home, quickly and carelessly, as if demons were gnawing at my heels.
*I wrote this short piece in a workshop that I took over the summer at Sarah Lawrence College. Although the focus of the workshop was nonfiction, we were asked to write about a walk which could or could not have happened. So ... I embellished freely.
