Sometimes I notice that there are plants – even flowers – along highways. They remind me of a small story: My uncle said to my five-year-old sister, “Let’s hit the road,” and in response, she walked from his car to the street and smacked the street with her hand. If you remove my uncle, you’ll see what’s important: A girl walks the length of a driveway, lowers her face to the road so that her blood upends, low enough that she discerns purple in the pavement, opens her palm and, in a tap, feels that it is pebbly. Road isn't paved for this attention – almost affection. Road is paved for driving, obviously. Road denotes passing through, as do: weeds; concrete; fluorescent lights; rust. We've made non-places of many places. If you can crouch and appreciate one square of sidewalk, that's good – even beautiful – but we need softness, and richness, and melody, to sink our sensitive roots.