Watching a little boy race around the deserted Starbucks veranda on his little bike. He is perhaps 5, and weaves in and out between the tables and chairs with amazing skill. Definitely ready for his motorbike license.
He stops by my table for a moment and I compliment his skill.
Ini tempat bagus bersepeda, ya?
He stops by my table for a moment and I compliment his skill.
Ini tempat bagus bersepeda, ya?
The boy agrees, then races away. Pretty soon he's back again and parks by my table.
I like your bike, I say.
Thank you. It's new.
My goodness, the boy speaks English, too. Pintar sekali!
I am reminded of my own stepson, Preston. A long time ago. Just about this boy's size. With a little bike just about this size. And boy could he ride that thing--chubby legs pumping, curly hair flying.
That was some 25 years ago, but in my mind he is still steaming down that sidewalk in North Portland, oblivious to all but the wind in his hair and the racing wheels on the walk.
What happened to the years? How very swiftly they have raced away--and yet they touch down again in another place, another time. How eager they are to speak, to remind.
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