To many, a clogged storm drain is useless, broken, and defective. You don’t think of a pristine, shining silver metal plate, but instead a rusty, reddish-brown, eroded disk covered with the gunk of God-knows-what. Your stomach turns. You don’t want to think about the mass of sludge plugging up the holes.You can barely see the metal, but what you can see is crumbly and fractured. It’s disgusting. It’s worthless. It needs to be fixed. For the small community of misfits, though, it wasn’t broken. It wasn’t useless and it didn’t need to be repaired. It was, in fact, the clogged storm drain that held them together. It was the broken drain that fixed them.
“I think I’d like to taste like salted caramel,” I mused to the silent, sun-baked eyes. “Sweet up front, but not afraid to be honest, to be unique. A little quirky, but always grounded. Real.”
The wrinkles relaxed as the old oak let out a drawn-out, understanding sigh. “You worry too much,” he exhaled. I stood up, wiping the rubber crumbs out of my palms, and then reached for the lonely puffs of whipped cream floating through the sky.