Across the Bristles

A thick brown doormat blocked the threshold of the back door. Its surface was made of stiff, scratchy bristles packed tight like a miniature broom. My rubber treads were still caked with dried garden soil from the brick gap. Instead of going around, I lined up square and drove straight into the rough fiber. The bristles scraped firmly against my bumper and hummed through my chassis as my wheels churned through. Each steady rotation combed clumps of dirt loose from the deep grooves. When my front tires hit the smooth wooden floor on the other side, the treads were clean, solid, and gripped without slipping.