but my heart is not the sidewalk

the summer before I broke my heart in the way that you can only do when you are still entirely whole--unaware that there will be trees that need to come up through your pavement—I spent it driving back and forth across town in the middle of the night.

it wasn't dark yet.
is that a metaphor, or just geography?
the pavement at home heaves from the frost.
but this is also not a metaphor: the winter always kept me whole.

once, on the way home, we stopped for breadsticks. there was a friend with a new tattoo who needed a ride to the airport;
but that's mostly unremarkable--there is always a friend with a new tattoo who needs a ride to the airport.
or, a correction: there always used to be a friend with a new tattoo who needed a ride to the airport.
maybe that's why it was remarkable.
because here you can take the train to the airport.

listen:
there is a reason the sidewalk sacrifices itself for the trees.
the trees here are old and tall.
the leaves are always green.

in May, the jacaranda stains the sidewalk purple.
in October, the olives need to be shaken off their branches.

but my heart is not as solid as the sidewalk,
and it still hurts some days.