The year of the potholes seemed to last three winters. Summer was too short and too wet to remember. Winter, with its
frozen white knuckles around my sun, proved to be a danger to your bare feet.
Before you met Mommy and Daddy I lifted you into the car and over the cliffs of jagged asphalt
to a good family complete with a mother and father and sisters and daughters.
The snow fell on us as we entered the house where the first father you’ve ever met smiled at you standing in the living room.
The mother fed you turkey and applesauce and pretzels and orange juice and raisins. On cue, you screamed
when the food vanished and we left to return to the swollen holes in the road.
Although the sun came out, remaining gashes in the road caught us off guard.
We cried for the father while you sang “twinkle, twinkle,” in your satin blue dress.
We finally gave in and giggled at your unhealthy obsession with hiding peas.
This winter, the roads are smooth as you recite who you saw at Meeting for Worship.
I wonder where the potholes I dodged in the rain have gone.
WhenI remember how much time has passed, I release my grip on the wheel.
We get out and walk to our house, and I squint while I watch you lick a fist full of grey ice
and balance on an ice puddle. When it collapses you conquer it by
stomping around in the water, and flipping your hat off your head.
” Mommy, I love the snow” you reveal. So, I figure the year of the potholes is finally over.
