It Was Then I Carried You

Giant-sized foot prints walk with me all along the beach.  I wonder who's foot this is?  And what weird toes, long and skinny like Shrek feet maybe. Or a witch with slender pointy toenails.  Is she missing part of her pinky toe?  Whomever is making these prints in the sand, they are not flat-footed.  My feet are well-arched, shrouded in my black and pink walking shoes.  Tucked away.  I think about untying my sneakers and throwing them in the air so I can wiggle my toes in the sand.  But the air is cold and the water wet, so I will do that on another day. The owner of this foot, who pays no mind to the chill, skims along the surface.  Lightly are the steps, barely making a dent in the wet sand.  With patience, these mystery prints that might belong to a ghost, wait on the edge of the shoreline where the waves will soon wash them all away.  It makes me think of that poem. The one where the person complains to the Lord that he was abandoned because he notices only one set of prints when times are tough.  The Lord owns those prints and says that's when he carried the person.  I would hope for that.  That these footprints are somehow a message.  That we are not alone.