Cracked Sidewalks and Forgotten Dreams

The cracked sidewalks remember my roller skates,
the ones with the key that tightened just so.
They remember the scraped knees,
the taste of summer asphalt,
the feeling of flying,
for at least five seconds.

Now, the heels of my sensible shoes
click a different rhythm,
a slower beat,
a steady hum
that doesn't promise escape.

The dreams I chased then,
shimmering like heat haze on the highway,
seem so far away now,
like postcards from a place I've never been.
Did I even want to go there?
Or was it just the wanting that mattered?

There are days when the weight of it all
settles in my bones,
a dull ache that no amount of stretching can ease.
The unpaid bills, the leaky faucet,
the endless to-do list,
they all press down,
reminding me of my ordinariness.

But then, sometimes, in the early morning light,
filtering through the dusty blinds,
I see the way it catches the spiderweb
spun in the corner of the window frame,
and it's breathtaking.

Or the way my daughter's hand
felt small and trusting in mine
just yesterday,
and I remember the fierce, protective love
that burns brighter than any dream ever could.

The laughter shared with a friend,
the comfort of a familiar book,
the warmth of the sun on my face,
these small moments,
these everyday miracles,
they are the new dreams now.

They are the solid ground beneath my feet,
even if the sidewalk is cracked.
They are the quiet hum of a life lived,
not always perfectly,
not always brilliantly,
but honestly.

And maybe that's enough.
Maybe it's more than enough.
Maybe the real magic was never in the flying,
but in the landing,
in the finding of beauty
in the ordinary,
in the acceptance of the cracks,
knowing they tell a story,
my story.

A story still being written,
one sensible shoe click at a time.
And that, I think,
is a pretty good dream too.