Sidewalk

Brendon Wu
July 5, 2005

Life on the Side

I step outside and I never have to wonder where it’s going to be. It’s always there “twenty-four seven,” so I can depend on it for sure footing. On sunny days, its face is warm and my feet glow beside it. On rainy days, it casts a great and beautiful gloomy reflection as the ethereal puddles take formation on its cheeks. No other part of my hometown is more practical and useful. No matter what, I have always loved my neighborhood sidewalk and I am sure the relationship is mutual.

I first fell in love with my sidewalk at age five. My babysitter, Feng Wei, and I went outside to play on the grass because my mother was taking a rest and wanted quiet in the house. The rainbow shot across the blue definitively from one end of the sky until it broke off into various smidgens on the other side. Even at such a young age, I appreciated the beauty of the day. Hating the damp grass that often wetted and grazed the butt of my shorts when I sat down, I ran around on the dry, soapstone driveway until one day a gigantic rush of metal and wheels threatened my premature existence. In what I always considered as a miracle of God, Feng Wei quickly pushed me out of the way and saved me from a deadly collision with my father’s car. Young and naïve, I wasn’t even aware of the death that barely missed me. Instead, I was infatuated with the peach, pink, and tangerine chain of squares that Feng Wei had pushed me onto. The coarse and undefined texture of each individual square fascinated my virgin fingers. Ignoring my bloody knuckles and scraped knees, I followed the long procession of equal squares around my neighborhood ahead of my father and Feng Wei, who were only too happy that I was unscathed.

My sidewalk is my sidekick, my amigo, my companion of sorts. For such a practical device, the sidewalk’s taken for granted by most people. Imagine a world without sidewalks. Pedestrians beware! In both the urban or rural environment, dangerous cars would wait behind curved roads waiting mercilessly, so they could recklessly run over innocent bystanders. At age five, my sidewalk never cared if my shirt was never properly tucked in. At age eight, it never cared if I took a massive whiz next to Mr. Parady’s tree in the middle of the day. Today, it doesn’t care if I go running and haven’t showered for days.

It didn’t even care that one time I ran away from home. It was a dark, twisted night… one of those nights where the skies were populated with clouds and the humidity clenched onto your skin like suction cups. My mother never ended her pointless tirades about how I needed more “discipline” and better “time management” in my life. She never realized that I was a seventeen year old boy on the verge of manhood. I followed the serpentine path of my neighborhood and scampered through the many loops and cul de sacs. On the parts of the sidewalk that held the dirty, ginger remainders of last week’s blizzard, I ran through them without a second thought. The sidewalk didn’t care where I went or how worried my parents would be. It only cared about helping me sort out my depressive thoughts until I could follow the sidewalk and return home.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote that as a creative piece for what feels like a LONG time ago. The incident with my father's car is absolutely untrue. A similar occurrence happened but it didn't happen like it did in "Life on the Side." Everything else is true.