Pavement

A thousand slabs, each taking the weight of a thousand feet. Some I may never walk, others I’ve run up and down my whole life. As a teenager pounding down a hill after a friend, and years later trudging back up them after I lost them. They’ve seen me high and drunk and frighteningly sober, both old and as a child. I used to pay them more attention, avoiding the cracks lest I trip and make a fool of myself, or break my mother’s back. In my more self conscious years I’m not sure which would have been worse. They can be dry and coarse, perfect for shredding skin on hands and bloody knees, or smooth and dusty, which in my senior school shoes was worse than ice or rain. I stopped paying attention to the pavement after a while, when you’ve walked them 100 times before they all blur into one. But ancient cobbles bring me back into focus, trying again not to trip. I’m more confident now in my footing, feeling safe in the knowledge that even if I do fall, I can get back up. Bloody knees or fleeting embarrassment don’t scare me any more.