Susan LaffertyThe paved path I walk most mornings is shifting.
Lifted. Moved. Broken.
By earthquake, flood, or foot traffic?
No. Roots of nearby trees travel underneath. Moving asphalt. Breaking through brick and stone.
Revealing their power and hold. Eventually breaking through from underneath the surface. Disrupting my steps.
Sun beat down on flat roofs in long Karachi summers.
Electricity failed. Lines melted. Disconnecting and falling in the street.
The interior of our home was an oven. Climbing over 100 degrees at times.
We read of people dying in Chicago one summer. Why? Fans combined with heat above a certain temperature in their apartments turned those spaces into convection ovens.
Oh. We were getting cooked.
Dawn. And I’m walking on a path interrupted by roots. Stumbling on acorns hidden beneath fallen leaves.
The way feels uneven.
Unpredictable.
I can’t look up. In the grey. Before full light reveals.
