By Isabella Mark
Water sunk between my fingers and splattered onto my shirt. A paddle sliced each wave as I pulled my weight backward only for the boat to rock toward my stronger arm – a scream from behind me to move left fought for space in the air. My ankles started to itch from the mix of dirt and water tapping them, but the wind. The wind felt so good. And a swell of pressure ballooned in my stomach to relieve as I laughed at my friend behind me. We were an hour into the New Member Retreat and were already yelling at each other. I was wholly unaware of where the year would go and how much I would grow to care for a cause I could not completely understand. Yet, these moments always rest under a looming weight and I just can't seem to rip the two apart; to just let the moment drift in its joy – the weight of wondering when this feeling will find me again.
The two light blue doors with paint chipped from years of opening once again swung open. It was my first day, each step weighed more than the next as I attempted to mask my nerves with swift movements. I was guided on my first shift, but I could not drop this weight – the weight of a future mistake. I knocked on the oak-colored door with a handle that pushed us into the room. A young girl sat in her bed while her mother lay on the firm couch – one that I imagined would be hard to not slip off of. Here, the girl was kind enough to play a game with me. We played for about 10 minutes, which slipped into pure conversation as she showed me her favorite songs and artists. The next hour we spoke, laughed, and sang. At this moment, I felt this weight shift to one that was all too familiar – yet, I was happy to welcome it. She, almost reading my mind, asked when I could find her again.
Water sunk between my fingers and splattered onto my shirt. As I pulled my weight backward, I felt the boat shift opposite my stronger arm – my scream to move right fought for space in the air. My ankles itched from dirt and the sun evaporated water as soon as it landed on me, but the wind. The wind felt so good. I heard my friend laugh from behind me. We were an hour into hosting the New Member Retreat and already yelling at each other. I knew the moments that led me to get on the boat, the moments that inspired me to come back the next year, and the moments that found me again. Yet, as these moments continued to grow they never escaped the looming weight.
The two light blue doors with paint chipped from years of opening once again swung open. It was my last year, each step weighed more than the next as I attempted to push the pit from my stomach down my legs and through the floor. I guided new members on their first shift, but I could not drop this weight — the weight of living in a long-awaited future. I knocked on the oak-colored door with the handle that pushed us into the room. A young girl sat in her bed while her mother lay on the firm couch — one that I still imagined would be hard to not slip off of. Here, the girl asked to dance. We spun around and swung our arms. Music bounced against the sink, maybe causing the last drop to fall from the faucet. The weight did not need to shift when we left and the girl asked when I could find her again.
Footprints had become a community to welcome new experiences, depend on one another, and share in the moments we can all be lucky enough to miss. In my last year, I asked my friends, "When I will find you again?” Yet, with each gust of wind, shared laughs, songs, and dances, I’ve come to realize no moment, feeling, or friend is ever lost. I will always remember the community which I have been lucky enough to be welcomed into, but with each reminder, I can always find Footprints.
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