Flash Fiction: Keep on the Sidewalk


It took me five years to get back on the sidewalk.  It was a Friday on the third Friday of the second month.  It’s known as February to most people.  This is the month I was born and then reborn years later.  It was the month I celebrated my golden birthday.  It was the time when my parents surprised me with a cake with frosting all the colors of the rainbow.  It had to be held with two hands or else it would fall.  I stopped thinking worms were good enough to be noticed as I blew out the candles. 

My childhood was over.

I was a grown up and ready to capture its essence.  I was ready to lose my way on the edges.  I was a breathing, moving, and thinking adult.  There were no robotic parts to me.  You couldn’t peel the outer layer back and expose wires and a mechanical heart.  I was fallible and vulnerable.  I was not with strong hands and legs.  This was not a myth in my head.   It gripped me tight and exposed me to a weakness.  I stayed there longer in this reality than I wanted.

My adulthood had started.

When the soles of my shoes touched the cement, I noticed the overdue repairs to fill the crack where weeds and dandelions grew.  It was the first giant step I took, over that crack.  I was back on that familiar, hard surface, ready for something different and brand new.  I took more steps, forged ahead to get closer to the thing I desired, but could not name yet.  There was no turning back, only commitment ahead of me as I braved this freedom, never wanting it to leave me again. 


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