3.25.00

I remember the first time we rode together. Not so long ago, was it? Very early in the morning and I thought you might not stir from your perch on the hill. I believed I was willing to ride alone if I didn't find you at the water, but you called and said you were ready. I rushed out of here, geared up and with my headphones on, surely leading wakes of invisible whorls of air. I listened to that fast music I've got the radio tuned to -- you know that high school station that plays not even pop but just a continuous beat? (I call it "pulp." I will rarely admit to listening to it, and surely not that it grows on me, which copious exposure makes inevitable.) Well I sang! Every simple word aloft of the beat threading off my tongue. Loudly and without a care, breathing in the melody as much as out, all the way down the city to the water where you waited. Tuesday I walked in the sunshine along a portion of trail where we rode that day. A bicyclist coming toward me sang breathlessly and I didn't stop myself from smiling at our camaraderie, or his dribbling tune. I certainly hadn't forgotten that early morning flight to you, but at that moment I saw myself as you would have if you had been listening instead of watching for me.

future past index