Prologue
(written from Golden, Colorado, fall of 2012; reverie from Austin, Texas, circa 1975)
The middle-canopy of autumn purple ash blur into sun-shot gold and distract my approach to the stop sign on Fifth where it crosses Washington Avenue. Instead of braking, I’d like to gun the gas and cruise right through--would the sea of traffic part for me too? It’s something my father used to do, way back when, on his motorcycle. His chuckle would rumble down his spine and I would grip even harder from behind, burrow my face in the expanse of his back and work to become one, even as I braced for impact. Living for him was sharper this way, a honing of his edge, and my edges too. I brake, of course, no illusions that ‘one willing body is never as good as two’, but I can’t help counting the times when we would have made it through, right here on the corner of Fifth Street and Washington Avenue.
Love this. Thought provoking, intimate, a little scary? Sus
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