Someday you will drop your boys off at the ball field for practice.
And your daughter will get on her bike and ride the surrounding quarter-mile paved loop over and over.
And you might walk the same paved loop, untethered.
Or read The New Yorker.
Or simply sit on the bench with your eyes closed for 10 blessed minutes knowing all hell will not break loose.
And that small knot in the back of your neck will loosen,
but only slightly,
because “Is she still breathing?”
turns into
“Is he being kind?”.
You will note the wind pushing the clouds, forcefully, it seems, for such a beautiful day.
And the hands that once went pat-pat-pat on the small curves of those three beautiful backs,
will unknot the dusty cleats
and adjust the bicycle seat that forever moves up, not down.
