I’ve never minded peeing behind a tree.
Maybe it’s because I did it so often as a child, on the road, in the woods, wherever we happened to be. But even now, as an adult, squatting behind a scrub oak doesn’t feel like a hardship. No plumbing, no pretense. Just a patch of earth and my body, remembering.
My bare feet press into the cold dirt, and I look up …
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