Feeling

Touch is probably my favorite of the five senses. I love feeling things and noticing the different textures. My family always laughed because I had to touch everything as a child. That has definitely carried over into adulthood. In the train yesterday, for example, I felt the seats that looked different to see how the material felt different from each other. Then I touched the window to see if it was hot or cold since it was a cooler day yesterday. I felt the air coming through the slit in between the two rail cars and the dust that settled on the machinery in the same area; it gave the metal boxes a rough texture. So of course, when we hiked through the remains of Dogpatch, I had to touch everything, just like I did when I was a child. On the way down the drive I ran my hands through the tall grasses to feel them brushing against my skin. I would stop quite often to feel a leaf that looked smooth or a cluster of flowers that looked interesting. I felt the rocks that made up the building of the caretaker’s house. Part of them were smooth, a few were rough. I’m not sure if they were made that way or if they were weathered down after forty or so years of standing. The wooden doors were warped and rough against my fingertips, but the doorknob was still smooth. Inside, the air felt thick from dust that continuously builds up and never gets a chance to be blown around. I really enjoyed feeling the moss and plants that surrounded the pond. It was so thick that it held up small items without them falling into the water, but it is moss, so it was still damp. Some of the lichen that built up around the rocks of the pond’s edge was completely dry. It flaked when I touched it, just like the paint on the walls of the house and the breaking wood of the game stands. When it rained I felt everything in a totally different way. Everything was slick and some things were slimy. A strange feeling.