Yesterday, on the bike path, pedaling home from a stint at the Kickstand Cafe with my computer, there was a small group ahead of me on the path in sunlight that looked almost dusty: A mother – or grandmother – and a child.
Like it would have been when I was small and walking on a path with my grandmother.
It was like I was riding behind a moment of childhood that may have never happened. But it was happening now.
The breeze was gentle and rich, like the touch of someone who loves everything you are, not despite your crass imperfections, not because of them – but because of their irrelevance to love.
And I realized this IS the gift. This moment, this breeze, this sun, this memory of dusty roads … and someone who loves me taking my hand.
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