The Streets Weren't Always Paved in Gold

The streets weren't always paved in gold. Or where they? I recall muddy ruts like chocolate pudding, the wagon sliding sideways, Daddy cracking the whip while Beauty's hooves made sucking sounds as she labored her way up our mud lake hill, her fine coat glistening from the effort.

I take another road.

I can see Beauty, a powdery black, as Mother Earth swirls the parched and vulnerable soil into an ethereal frenzy, as our little band of souls makes its Sunday way to early morning service in the drought-filled summer, when a whistle-wetting water drop was non-existent. Snow heaped high down another road--heaped high and silent--as the icy bluster swirled it into ice cream mounds. I see Momma and Daddy and Brother and me scooping our way through it, heck-bent on seeing "Gone With the Wind" playing down at the Bijou.

And now, the road I take leads to a manicured cul-de-sac, the street sweeper making sure not an errant leaf, Wrigley wrapper, or memory remain--my cul-de-sac a pristine oasis in this dirty world. I am safe in my sterile cocoon, behind my concrete barrier.

This road glistens when Spring washes the world. And, when the sun catches it just right, it glistens gold--like my world--hidden away from all that might tarnish it.

However, my streets weren't always paved in gold. Or were they?


All Rights Reserved.
The Streets Weren't Always Paved in Gold, copyright 2003, Jackie Marx.