In the Gutter

Last evening, as the heat of the day finally gave way to a kinder breeze, I wandered out front with a drink, no particular plan in mind. The sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows, making the dry grass look golden. There was a stillness in the neighborhood that felt older than me, like something that had been waiting all day to sit quietly with the crickets.

I set the drink down on the porch and, without really thinking, eased myself down to the edge of the sidewalk. The concrete was still warm from the day’s sun, but not hot enough to be uncomfortable. I folded my legs so my knees stuck up and let my bare feet settle right there in the gutter where the curb curves down—same way I used to when I was a kid, back when the world was smaller and summer evenings were something sacred.

It hit hard and gentle all at once—how familiar it felt. I was 15 again, just a wiry boy with scabbed-up knees and a sunburnt nose, sitting on that same kind of sidewalk, watching ants work their trails, waiting for the streetlights to flicker on. That motion of sitting like that—it unlocked something in me, something soft and quiet and almost forgotten.

Why does something so small, so insignificant, catch hold of me like that?

I reckon it’s because those little things—things we barely notice as they happen—are what stick. Not the milestones or the noise of it all, but the shape of your bare feet in a warm gutter, the smell of someone mowing two blocks over, the sound of a basketball bouncing somewhere distant.

It’s the stuff nobody writes down that ends up meaning the most.

I remember evenings like this when my brother, Adam, and I would sit there, waiting for an ice cream truck that would never come. It was okay, because we didn’t have money half the time, but we’d wait anyway, because hope is free and sweeter than any popsicle.

And sometimes a neighbor would walk by and say something like, “Y’all ain’t got nothin’ better to do?” and we’d grin and shake our heads no, proud of it.

That was the gift of it all—we didn’t need anything to feel complete.

Now here I am, all these years later, older in the knees and a little slower to get back up, and yet, the simple act of sitting like that—feet in the gutter, breeze in the trees—made the years melt away. For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about bills or politics or the state of the world.

I wasn’t remembering losses or planning tomorrows. I was just being—like I was then.

And maybe that’s the root of it. We chase these little flashes of the past because they remind us of who we were before the world got heavy. They bring back the feeling of being light and aimless, the stuff that felt like freedom, not fear.

So tonight, I sat with my feet in the gutter and my heart somewhere between then and now. And when I finally stood back up—slowly, with a soft grunt—I felt a little more whole than I had all day.

Sometimes, you don’t need to go far to remember who you are, just a warm sidewalk, a cool breeze, and a place to let your feet rest in the gutter.