This road
For all the joy-hills and all the never-experienced streets ahead, for all of the
familiar cracks we'll breeze right over and all the upcoming craters that we can't
foresee...for our better and for our worse, here's to it all.
This road.
Sometimes this road is so stinking bumpy that it's just Pothole-City. Everywhere.
High-low. High-low. Where's the smooth? How do we get to the smooth? It's coming up, isn't it? Is this just forever gravel? Maybe if we slide to the left it will lessen, maybe the flattened rocks are to the right. Why so rough . . .
The better. The worse.
The inside. The out.
Is this the turn we took? This road? Not this one. How did we end up here?
It appears (the smooth, freshly paved one). It always does. It just always does. Sometimes for miles. Miles. Sometimes for just long enough to recover from the bumps and prep for the rocks in the distance. There is no going back. Just a smooth front-going road. Clear. Bump-less. Rolling hills.
Joy-hills. Laugh forever up the hills. Climb. Climb. Climb. Perfectly even, freshly painted lines before us. This new road. That new road. His new road. Her newest road. Our most beautiful streets of all, them.
Our loved road.
It returns. It has to return. The bleak, the shady, the curb-less roughed up cement with cracks so fine they first appear harmless, that road. The cracks: Goodbye cracks, You're-not-me cracks, Why cracks. The rough road always returns. It returns because not all roads start with you and me, not all roads are paved by you and me. These roads, these old streets remind us of ones we've headed down before. We know this road, don't we? We've been here before, haven't we? We've tackled this road; we've felt the cracks, patched them, and moved on.
This road. Again? Couldn't be.
It never is. They never are. The road ahead is never the road behind. It's a one-way. Our one-way. Only forward way.
It's bleak, shady, curb-less, so familiar, but the cracks, the cracks are different. Forced-goodbye cracks. You-misheard-me cracks. Why-not-us cracks. Too deep. Too jagged. Who did this to our road? That first patch up won't do; these cracks are crumbling, flying into our path. No tool, no sealant, no tar, nothing.
Our ugly road.
Rain. Just rain. Only rain.
Covering you, covering me. Carrying us, a straight up hydroplane.
Carried.
A tight turn, an incline we've never attempted, a straight roadblock, it always rains.
Doesn't it always rain? A light shower that reflects our headlights just enough to light
the curve, a sweet soft second-lasting wet windshield of a reminder, a thunderous
down-pour that clears the road entirely...
It always rains. Rick, it always rains.
Even the smooth roads, the sweetest of smooths, it rained. The road to Grey, rain-filled.
The road to Tate, rain-filled. To Asher, rain still. Quin's road, rain-filled. The road
to Ivy, more rain still.
Winding or not. Straight or not. Occasional bumps or not. Dodging holes or not.
Every terrain. Every road ahead. Every happy hello and every rough goodbye. Every
mountaintop and every scary valley. Every moment. On this road. Our road.
This what's-coming-next road. This we-didn't-know road. This we-really-just-have-to road. This we-don't-know-what-we're-doing road. This joy-producing road. This it's-so-hard-to-go-nonstop road. This rain-filled, God-touched, never-alone road.
familiar cracks we'll breeze right over and all the upcoming craters that we can't
foresee...for our better and for our worse, here's to it all.
This road.
Sometimes this road is so stinking bumpy that it's just Pothole-City. Everywhere.
High-low. High-low. Where's the smooth? How do we get to the smooth? It's coming up, isn't it? Is this just forever gravel? Maybe if we slide to the left it will lessen, maybe the flattened rocks are to the right. Why so rough . . .
The better. The worse.
The inside. The out.
Is this the turn we took? This road? Not this one. How did we end up here?
It appears (the smooth, freshly paved one). It always does. It just always does. Sometimes for miles. Miles. Sometimes for just long enough to recover from the bumps and prep for the rocks in the distance. There is no going back. Just a smooth front-going road. Clear. Bump-less. Rolling hills.
Joy-hills. Laugh forever up the hills. Climb. Climb. Climb. Perfectly even, freshly painted lines before us. This new road. That new road. His new road. Her newest road. Our most beautiful streets of all, them.
Our loved road.
It returns. It has to return. The bleak, the shady, the curb-less roughed up cement with cracks so fine they first appear harmless, that road. The cracks: Goodbye cracks, You're-not-me cracks, Why cracks. The rough road always returns. It returns because not all roads start with you and me, not all roads are paved by you and me. These roads, these old streets remind us of ones we've headed down before. We know this road, don't we? We've been here before, haven't we? We've tackled this road; we've felt the cracks, patched them, and moved on.
This road. Again? Couldn't be.
It never is. They never are. The road ahead is never the road behind. It's a one-way. Our one-way. Only forward way.
It's bleak, shady, curb-less, so familiar, but the cracks, the cracks are different. Forced-goodbye cracks. You-misheard-me cracks. Why-not-us cracks. Too deep. Too jagged. Who did this to our road? That first patch up won't do; these cracks are crumbling, flying into our path. No tool, no sealant, no tar, nothing.
Our ugly road.
Rain. Just rain. Only rain.
Covering you, covering me. Carrying us, a straight up hydroplane.
Carried.
A tight turn, an incline we've never attempted, a straight roadblock, it always rains.
Doesn't it always rain? A light shower that reflects our headlights just enough to light
the curve, a sweet soft second-lasting wet windshield of a reminder, a thunderous
down-pour that clears the road entirely...
It always rains. Rick, it always rains.
Even the smooth roads, the sweetest of smooths, it rained. The road to Grey, rain-filled.
The road to Tate, rain-filled. To Asher, rain still. Quin's road, rain-filled. The road
to Ivy, more rain still.
Winding or not. Straight or not. Occasional bumps or not. Dodging holes or not.
Every terrain. Every road ahead. Every happy hello and every rough goodbye. Every
mountaintop and every scary valley. Every moment. On this road. Our road.
This what's-coming-next road. This we-didn't-know road. This we-really-just-have-to road. This we-don't-know-what-we're-doing road. This joy-producing road. This it's-so-hard-to-go-nonstop road. This rain-filled, God-touched, never-alone road.
To this road we pursue, Emily
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