The shelf in the garage has been holding up

The shelf in the garage has been holding up

for seven years.

Metal. Galvanized when it was new,

that silver shine like it would last forever.

I went out there today

for something else,

and I really looked at it.

The coating is flaking off.

Strips of it, like the shelf is shedding skin.

Underneath, the orange rust

is doing its work,

eating away at the metal,

eating away at the promise

that galvanized means permanent.

The boxes are still stacked on it.

Heavy boxes. Old things.

Things I've been meaning to sort through

for years.

I just stood there

looking at the rust,

looking at the boxes,

looking at the slow failure

happening underneath everything,

and I thought:

how long has this been like this?

How long has the shelf been deteriorating

while I used it,

while I stacked things on it,

while I trusted it

to hold the weight?

It's still holding.

The boxes haven't fallen.

The shelf hasn't collapsed.

But it will.

Eventually, the rust will win,

and the shelf will give,

and everything will come down.

And I should do something about it.

I should buy a new shelf,

move the boxes,

prevent the disaster

that's already written.

But I'm standing in the garage

watching the rust work,

and I'm not moving.

Because that would mean admitting

that things break,

that things fail,

that I should have noticed sooner,

that I should have done something

when it would have been easier,

when the rust was still just

a small problem,

before it ate through

to the core.