Have you ever sat down in the middle of the road? There you are in the midst of all that concrete and you let your hand make contact. The road has a texture sharp and undeniable. Every pass your hand makes across its surface is a reminder that it is neither smooth nor forgettable.
There comes that moment when you decide to rise from the ground and walk back into the house. Standing up, you dust off your backside and your hands. You take a moment to inspect your pock-marked palms. The road has left tangible evidence of how fiercely textured it is, of how influential the experience was. The fingers of your right hand play fondly among the dusty, pink dints on the left hand as you take the steps up to the front porch.
There you are in the cool, clean kitchen with your freshly washed hands. The road’s telling-marks fade. You spot the pile of apples. Red Delicious. You reach out for the one sitting on top. It sits in your hand as your finger glosses over a serious-red surface. You note how easily your finger makes the journey up and down and around the pome’s skin, hardly a journey at all. The moment your finger stopped you already forget how it all began.