High-Capacity Player

When I was girl, perhaps of six or so, I would go for walks in the summer rain. Without shoes. I would splash in puddles, the steaming hot concrete melting under my skin thick soles, and luxuriate in the sensation of the water washing over my feet and soaking into the cuffs of my Tough Skins. I was in the street, alone, and alive.

After the rains washed the gutters clean I would wander the allies and sidewalks, running my knuckles along cement walls while I imagined walking and walking and walking until I was far, far away from my childhood. Casting my eyes downward in supplication and submission - which is to say in owning my strength, my instinct for survival - pride and power and perseverance rushed through my veins as I watched my bare feet walk over sharp shards of broken glass and the refuse of humanity without flinching or failing.

And when I read your words my friend, "you're a high-capacity player," that same pride and power and perseverance was reborn in me as the image of my tender toes tripping along the hot summer streets flashed through my mind like the flash floods of my California childhood. Thank you for helping me to remember who I am, and where I come from.