Trace

Early one morning, I stood at the top of this old metal slide, dew still clinging to its surface. From up here, the ground feels farther away, like you’re seeing the whole worn-out story of childhood in one glance. The patch of dirt at the bottom tells its own quiet story too: a thousand small feet, running mostly to the left. It’s the kind of scene you could miss if you weren’t looking. But once you see it, you feel it.