The Road You Were Born On

The house you grew up in: tell me about it.

About the bunk bed your dad built.
About the dining room table, built for six, but managed to seat eight.
About the plastic yellow seats on the swing-set that pinched your bare legs in the summer.
About your crooked mailbox.
About your black lab that was blind in his left eye.

The road you were born on: tell me about it.

About the weeping willow at the end of your driveway that leaned hard to the left.
About the creek and the frogs that harmonized.
About the place where you crashed your bike into the fence.
Or about the store two blocks down with the big bells on the front door.
About the sidewalk that cracked in a W shape.
About the van that parked out front with peeling paint.
About the smell of ciabatta from the bakery.

Your story matters. The details matter.
Because in them the universal is quietly tucked.
Uncover it.