Nail

He handed me the nail,

small, rusted, ordinary,

the thing that broke the tire.

It sat in his palm like evidence—

the culprit, the cause, the nail.

It had been in there for weeks,

maybe longer, he said,

just sitting in the rubber,

slowly working through,

waiting for enough rough roads

to finish the job.

The tire on the lift

had a hole where the nail went.

That's all it took.

One small piece of metal.

One moment of not paying attention.

One nail.

I held it.

Heavier than expected.

Metal is heavy.

Rust is textured.

Small things matter.

The mechanic showed me where it went,

how it just kept going deeper,

how the pressure from driving

forced it further,

how eventually

everything gives way

to something

so small

you wouldn't even notice

until it was

too late.

I took the nail home.

I don't know why.

I put it on my shelf.

Proof of how easily

things break.

How a nail

is all it takes

to ruin everything.