Victoria Carter

Beautiful

Way back when we ran without shoes, our tender feet comforted by the sparse moss engulfing the old stone. One that had only known our unbridled shrieks of laughter for a fraction of its existence. Yet it seemed ageless to us, merely a passing thought. Existing much before we wrote on paper with pens and pencils that bruised our fingers. When we took to the wet sand instead, drawing with driftwood by the misty morning water under the watchful eyes of a parent; scolding us when we wandered to far from the house.