ODE TO A POTHOLE

 

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Sometimes it’s good to say nothing.

Like a pothole.

Just be there.

Be present.

Expect nothing. 

Yet be receptive.

Like an empty bowl.

When it rains (which is seldom) the potholes fill with water.

The streets shine.

The potholes become big bowls of rainwater, inset into the patched asphalt.

They glimmer like pieces of steel forming an irregular mosaic.

If it snowed here (which it doesn’t) they would completely disappear.

Everything looks lovely.

Clean and pure.

Refreshed.

Two dogs on the loose drink from one.

When you’re driving a vehicle, it’s much easier to avoid potholes when they are bowls of water.

But this doesn’t last.

It never does.

The rain heads east.

And the bowls dry out.

They don’t dry up.

They just dry out.

But they never complain.

Sometimes it’s best not to complain.

To accept what is.

To be quiet and secure right where you are.

Even if it seems empty.

Or unfair.

You are still here.

There.

Now.

Like potholes, we are transformed by what we receive.

And what goes away.

Potholes have fun.

They giggle every time a car swerves to avoid them.

And shout out loud when it misses and there goes the tire into the hole.

Wham!

And just as quickly, back out of the hole.

A job well done.

Potholes create music.

The pickup pulling a livestock trailer bangedy-bangs down the street as it hits every single one.

Much like a child banging on a xylophone.

And then it’s quiet.

Because potholes always return to quiet.

To a solitary place of stillness.

Knowing things come and go.

Knowing some things just can’t be avoided.

And some can.

And knowing, no matter what, things change.

-For my dear friend, KK

 

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