A piece of lettuce fell into my shoe.
Shredded lettuce, if you were curious, from a B.L.T. sandwich if you were really curious.
If you were even more curious than that then it was during lunch, as I sat on a bench of poured concrete on the side of canyon that looked out towards the ocean. It was the Pacific, and it spanned to the horizon. It was blue, and a breeze wafted from the coast up through a canyon and past me sitting on a poured concrete bench. It smelled of salt and memory to me.
In that moment I wanted to both laugh and cry. For I had dropped a piece of lettuce in my shoe, and I wanted to tell her how funny and strange it was to have found a piece of vegetation between my patterned socks and worn leather.
But she wasn’t there.
It took some time to get the lettuce out and I tried to flick the piece into the indistinguishable green of the canyon below. It lingered though. There between my feet it remained and reminded.
If you were curious, it reminded me of all the happy times I had. If you were curious still it reminded me that those times were over.
And if you pressed me any further I would tell you to always tie your laces tightly, so that scraps of your lunch never fall into your shoes.