Root Rippers and Tire Marks

Here are a series of photos of the pavement cracks I've stepped over for the majority of the mornings in my lifetime.

I don’t know whether I feel useful or of a burden when I hop over the pavement’s cracks and hit the ground harder on the other side, thus, contributing to the depth of the corrosion- and how the bigger the hop I must take, the bigger the damage I must do on daily routine.

How deep the street’s corrosion travels is a direct acknowledgement of how much I’ve been able to get myself out of the house. This is true for me and all the other boot heels that take “environment conscious” walks instead of stressing out the air and driving.

I have to say, I sort of feel sorry for the wear and tear my childhood streets have taken, and that the speed bumps don't do anything to keep the pebbles intact after a winter full of rock salt and heavy New England snow.

I think about the stress that pavement takes on a daily; how a dryer cycle every night in the neighbor's basement is rocking that pavement from its core, and how the base in my neighbor’s gold Honda is jerking the mica to the surface from every electric zap on the faded tar.

Those cracks I keep from stepping on are stress wrinkles. Worry lines; and the occasional smile line around the lip of a curb when it sees old Mr. Bell puttering home again, and a sigh of relief as he makes it in the driveway.

This one is from the new neighbors-- old now-- but new when they’d purchased the property down the road. The street was thrilled to see them, also thrilled, as the wife watched the 16 wheeler roll in with pallets of their new disassembled home. The truck was backing in, and the husband stuck his head out the passengers side and waved a flag to commemorate the house's landing. The flagpole struck a phone cord and clipped a line on it’s fastened latches; it stopped short, the whole thing blew, and everything from the roofing, to the siding, to the 20 pound bags of cobblestone skid into the what-would-be driveway with heavy impact.

The walkway coursed off the back with at least a sense of arrival, a “honey I’m home” approach, but the steel beams came a crashing, and left their mark on the property in a forever lasting and dignified way.

That crack, we call a scar.

The neighbor’s house was eventually built. Homes have since been sold, upcycled, reimagined, stripped, painted, partitioned, and decorated in glowing lights, but rest assured there has been no town affection on the rooted up grounds needing a budget for investment in infrastructure repair.

No, the cracks are still there; not dared blanketed with a mask of fresh asphalt as if we haven’t been kicking up the sidewalks since the 80’s.

Those cracks are still going strong. Still, that pavement is just as dirty as we left it. It picks up after all the mud we leave, and the air debris— and the oil spills and old poured coffee drinks to make room for a new cup.

And then we really have the nerve to ooh at the pretty blanket of snow that's done nothing to get us nowhere- that doesn’t even bother to learn our names.

But when the snow does melt, and the rain does drain, and the puddles do dry again, I smile when I see my hometown’s wrinkles have gotten a little more defined, just as well as mine do.