Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

I had many people in my life that loved me...and I was not necessarily lacking in love. What I craved was awareness—awareness of me. I could sit quietly in my chair and read the night away, never demanding attention, never seeking it. I could sit behind the piano and play and have people appreciate the beautiful music and never take notice of the one who played it. I was a steady, quiet presence in the lives of those around me. But sometimes in my reading I would discover new insights or have seemingly profound thoughts that would change my way of thinking. I would be hungry to share my inspiration with someone, so I would try to share my epiphanies with my dad or my brothers. They would remain politely quiet for a few seconds and then become distracted by something more interesting or urgent than my newly

acquired knowledge, leaving me to talk to myself. I usually just stopped talking when I could see they really weren’t interested or listening, and they never protested or urged me to continue.

I had needed someone to listen to me and to seek out my opinions. I had needed someone to value me, to give credence to my thoughts, to be awed by my abilities, and there was nobody more aware of a pretty teenage girl than an infatuated teenage boy.