He rides the cemetery lanes. I can’t keep up. I walk the center ways doing best to keep sight. I’m loose him over faint counter lines of land’s lay, tree and headstone obscurations, and the fall off of hill that he pedals fast down to catch speed, gleeful when returned to view on flat and slow-down stretch after.
Eight, almost-nine, it’s good practice for both of us. As he grows, picks up life-speed—I won’t always keep up. He’ll live a lot beyond my sight; but he knows too, I’m still close—never too far away—should something happen and he needs me.
If ever needed, or wanted, I can still come running.