Life comes with a brick.
It was part of the coupon your parents used to get you here.
Just a brick.
Mine was crumbled on the right top corner when I picked it up
Had a 7th grade scratch
A heartbreak chip
Yours is just a little bit larger than everyone else’s. And theirs has two holes while hers has three
His is rougher than usual.
Our parents taught us that holes were ok and crumbles were beautiful.
Just like parents are suposed to.
In fifth grade we had a show-and-tell day and
that’s the last time I can remember everyone being proud of their bricks.
When we were under 4 feet tall there were shows and songs and rhymes and riddles and 2 million different heat activated color changing motivational pencils (remember those?) that reminded us
every brick was great.
Because all bricks are different
When we grew closer to 6 feet tall there were shows and songs and rhymes and riddles and 2 million different Yahoo articles and googled how-tos that reminded us that
every brick was not great.
Because all bricks are different.
And once for three months I believed my brick was worthless. I drove up a road behind 7 other people considered the “figured-it-outs” and hair-flipped, drop-kicked my brick out the window.
They convinced me that holding onto it would make me another cemented down brick in the wall.
And they had a point
because millions of bricks all together tend to look repetitive
were missing the point.
Because that crumble in the top right corner
That seventh grade scratch
That heartbreak chip
Those things were me.
They were my grocery list, must-learns of life
Things designed specifically for me to learn
And I’m doing all that I can to search that pile of “not-good-enoughs” to find my crumbled, scratched, chipped block of something
Because this wall can’t be built without me
And I think that makes my brick pretty significant.
(In a beautifully insignificant kind of way)