The Space Between

In the morning we mounted bicycles,
proceeded down Lavender Road,
turned north at the old strip mall
(the one where seagulls harvest cigarette butts,
in front of the hardware store, coffee shop
and ma and pa burger emporium),
grunted uphill until we were able to glimpse
the Grand, its oxbow polka-dotted
with brown cows and dandelions,
littered with a thousand events
from our childhood. There, we rested,
sipped water, took a photo
or two of clouds running into maples,
consumed carrot sticks before sedately
gliding down the curves until
in a cul-de-sac, you dismounted,
stared into rapids running bedrock,
said, “The road ends here”.

Today, I watch you lying in bed,
head turned to the window where
sunlight slips between slats,
curls against your beige sweater
on the teak dresser. Your mind
has found the past and steadfastly
adheres, confuses, forgets —
forgets that where the road ends,
there is only beginning.