There are cracks on the sidewalk in Pietermaritzburg
In the spot where we met.
I type the street name into Google Earth.
Magically zooming out, crossing the ocean
And focusing in, I can’t see the cracks
Where fragments of gravel from our soles once fell.
I know they’re still there.

There’s a fallen tree in Honesdale, PA
Where we sat together the day before we married
And witnessed all that was variegated and green and good
on the road before us.
I imagine Its woody fibers
Are now one with the soil.
I know it’s still there.

There’s a Ford 150 van with brown leather seats
Where we buckled car seats and dialed the radio daily,
And occasionally adventured into wild places
with our camping gear loaded in the back.
It’s likely rusting
Standing in some junkyard.
I know it’s still there.

There’s a bike path by the Connecticut River
Where you held the back of bike seats, running alongside as brown legs vigorously peddled,
Letting go at just the right moment,
And stopping only to explore some hidden gem of the natural world.
Those brown legs have grown tall,
Venturing out into the world.
That path is still there.

There’s a patch of earth we’ve cultivated
Tilling, planting, watering, weeding
And harvesting God’s grace in all colors, shapes and sizes
I’m not sure why we keep arguing about who has toiled more through the years.
It’s still right there in our backyard
Where fragments from our souls have fallen.
It will be here still, after we leave.