This is what Charlotte writes.

10.19.07

The mud squishes up between my toes. Thick, like cake batter, chocolate cake batter, devil’s food, but with a greenish tinge that hints at something far more vile than Betty Crocker. Warm, too, in that cool warmth that can only come from natural things, heated by the sun’s rays but chilled by the shadows below the surface. My toenails beneath the coating of mud are ripped, some bloody, some still sporting a few scraps of pink polish. The side effects of going barefoot. I don’t mind. In fact, it would be odd to me to look down and see, at the end of my legs, perfect feet with pedicured toenails and no scars. As if I was looking down at the feet of a stranger. But these are no stranger’s feet, they’re mine, covered with calluses and ancient slime. I slide my feet through the muck, listening to the suction noises that follow my every movement. I pretend that I’m hunting for clams, searching for the air bubbles coming up to the surface, a sure sign of something alive down there. No bubbles arise but I continue to shuffle in the liquid ground. The mud is no longer squishing up between my toes, but rather over, through, down, all around encompassing them. It feels safe, for some reason, this blanket of the riverbed’s diarrhea cuddling my toes. I wish I could stand here forever, but the sun’s going down and we have to go, so I pull out my feet, giggling at my grayish brown stockings. For a moment there’s an indentation left in the goop from where I stood, but then it’s gone, the mud sliding back into where it belongs, filling the empty spaces. Erasing my presence. I almost feel like crying, but instead I rinse my feet, get in the car, and drive home with the sunset casting golden pink rays across the dashboard. The other cars pass me, see me with my sunglasses on and my hair up and think I’m normal. But, resting on the pedals, I have river between my toes.