Ain't it just the way? You're moving along, minding your own business. Then, you try to make a change. Go a different direction. Get out of a rut. And suddenly life spins out of control. You can't stop it. You grip the wheel tightly. You try to regain your course.
You slam into a curb.
Yep. That's just the way life is.
They don't plow our street. This is the first problem. Snow accumulates. People drive on it. It gets slushy. It makes a mess. It freezes. It becomes ice. It melts. I becomes a slushy mess again. Cars drive through the mess, leaving ruts. It freezes again. The cycle repeats. And repeats again. Then, it doesn't get above freezing. The ruts don't melt. They are smooth, solid ice. And when you try to get out of one to turn to get off the God-forsaken street to go pick up your son from kindergarten, your back end spins out and your front end lurches toward the curb and you end up, at ten miles an hour, nose to nose with a cement barrier.
Life has been a never-ending cycle of slamming into curbs and fire hydrants. Stuff accumulates. Hurts. Frustrations. Vows. They form ruts I bump along in for years. I get tired of the ruts. I try to get out. Do something different. Go a different direction. Take a different street. But something inevitably ends up in my path, denting my inner-bumper and leaving a streak of gray across my psyche.
A layer of salt, perhaps? An ice pick? Or the promise of a weekend thaw? What will it take to clear the way and make traversing the landscape safe again? What will it take for me to get to where I need to go in one piece?
You slam into a curb.
Yep. That's just the way life is.
They don't plow our street. This is the first problem. Snow accumulates. People drive on it. It gets slushy. It makes a mess. It freezes. It becomes ice. It melts. I becomes a slushy mess again. Cars drive through the mess, leaving ruts. It freezes again. The cycle repeats. And repeats again. Then, it doesn't get above freezing. The ruts don't melt. They are smooth, solid ice. And when you try to get out of one to turn to get off the God-forsaken street to go pick up your son from kindergarten, your back end spins out and your front end lurches toward the curb and you end up, at ten miles an hour, nose to nose with a cement barrier.
Life has been a never-ending cycle of slamming into curbs and fire hydrants. Stuff accumulates. Hurts. Frustrations. Vows. They form ruts I bump along in for years. I get tired of the ruts. I try to get out. Do something different. Go a different direction. Take a different street. But something inevitably ends up in my path, denting my inner-bumper and leaving a streak of gray across my psyche.
A layer of salt, perhaps? An ice pick? Or the promise of a weekend thaw? What will it take to clear the way and make traversing the landscape safe again? What will it take for me to get to where I need to go in one piece?
3 comments:
You rockin' writer! I just drove in Bexley, on sides like yours for the first time. My HEAVENS! It's all that and more! You have all my sympathy. We live on a street with 2 schools, and we're always plowed.
Last year, a kid slid off the road and plowed through the field next door and came with in three inches of our house.
Curbs... I like the idea of that more than a car sharing my bed. wink wink.
I just caught up with your last two posts. I want to point out that Gertrude (Gertie) means beloved warrior.
KP
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