Cracked Sidewalks

The cracked sidewalks of my childhood
still echo with the sound of roller skates.
Not mine, but hers.
Sarah, with the scraped knees and a laugh
that could peel paint.

We built empires out of cardboard boxes
and ruled kingdoms with dandelion crowns.
Now, the dandelions are weeds,
and the boxes are recycled,
and Sarah is a ghost in a city I’ve never seen.

I walk these streets now,
her memory a faint perfume on the breeze,
and wonder where the time went.
How did childhood evaporate
into deadlines and bills and the constant hum
of disappointment?

My coffee is lukewarm,
the sky a bruised purple,
and I’m suddenly aware of the weight
of every unspoken word,
every missed phone call,
every dream left to wither on the vine.

It’s not a dramatic grief,
no earth-shattering loss,
just the quiet erosion of joy,
the slow fade of color from a once vibrant world.

Like a favorite sweater, worn thin at the elbows,
life stretches and sags,
revealing the threads of what was,
and the stark reality of what is.

The birds are singing, oblivious,
to the ache in my chest,
the small, persistent throb of regret.

I see a child, maybe six,
chasing pigeons in the park,
her laughter echoing in the space
Sarah left behind.

And for a moment, just a fleeting second,
the cracks in the sidewalk seem to mend,
the bruised sky lightens,
and the coffee warms again.

But then the moment passes,
and I’m left with the pigeons’ silent wings,
the child’s retreating laughter,
and the knowledge that some things,
once broken,
can never truly be whole again.

Still, I keep walking.
One foot in front of the other,
navigating the cracked sidewalks,
carrying the weight of memory,
and hoping, against all odds,
for a patch of unbroken pavement ahead.

It is a silent plea to the universe,
a prayer whispered on the breath,
that maybe, just maybe,
the next corner will bring
a spark of something new,
a reason to believe
that even cracked sidewalks
can lead somewhere beautiful.