I have fallen off the curb.
This happens from time to time. Occasionally, I go down with a splash into the gutter or twist my ankle. This time is nothing that dramatic. More like a slip and a slide. A scrapped ankle.
I prefer the sidewalk. I’m not the type of person that jumps into the road. Although I secretly admire those people, I’ve never had it in me to court danger. The sidewalk is a good and even place for me.
I’m happy as I step from concrete square to concrete square. There’s the determined weed or a push from a random flower. Chalk drawings pop up on sidewalks. I love art.
The sidewalk is where hopscotch is played, marbles. Granted all sports and sweaty things come to life on the asphalt, in between passing cars.
But the sidewalk has a built in seat. A place to rest. Leaves drift near the sidewalk after a glorious rain.
If a tree grows in a nearby patch, the sidewalk rises and allows for the troublesome roots in exchange for the shade.
At first glance, the sidewalk may seem safe. A dull, monotonous path of squares, but when a person lives on the sidewalk she witnesses the fractured light of the leaves above.
The street, with all its bustle, is seductive. That’s what happened.
I forgot to look up. Forgot the birds return to their nests in the spring. I erased the memory of warmth on my bare feet.
The cars were shiny and the music spilling from them loud. I wandered too close to the edge of my sidewalk and slipped.
Time to get back up.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Turn Over.