Author: Briana McDade
When I grow up I want to be just like her.
I want to walk around my home barefoot, telling people how cold it is, while I wear a sweater.
I want to sing out loud to my heart’s content, not worried about what others think.
I want to step into her shoes, those legendary shoes.
Crafted out of whatever she could find, those shoes that haven’t worn out over time.
Made with beads from old shirts, and fabric from tattered cloth, and rhinestones from the lost abyss of nooks and crannies.
I want to quote people who wrote stories, who had imaginations that could be understood through sentences that gripped one’s soul.
One soul.
Her soul.
An old soul.