Tricycles

When I was in my teenage years, struggling through marriages, divorces, life, etc., my dad began telling me stories of his life. Back then, my thought was, "you don't understand", "that was then", "this is now". Now, today, how I cherish those stories. As I went outside tonight, after talking with a friend who just lost an 18 year old cat pet, whom her first love gave her, her first love dying in a car crash, I connected to "those" stories. You can spend "forever" in memories of lost loves. Yet, me, myself, would rather cherish "those stories" for what they were "then". Today, the memories of the youth, my youth connected to my father's stories, blend so heavenly.

Seeing the moon hidden behind the trees, in a twilight, with the children in the neighborhood riding their tricyles brought so many memories to mind. Me, myself, with my best friend, Wanda. We've known each other since we could talk. She lived up the street from me, across the street. When the city decided to "pave" the road, I wanted to cross it, to get to my friend. I tried my tricycle, yet, it only got stuck in the newly paved road. Left the tricycle, and just walked. Ruined my shoes. My mom got mad. But, I remember, for whatever odd reason, her aunt Faye. She helped me make it across. She made biscuits. Not very well. My friend Wanda and I would use the biscuits to play badminton.

What is my point? Every story is just that, a story. Most of my stories portray a youth. A youth of long ago. Yet, today, those stories try to make me who I am, when applied in the correct way. The "tricycle" story, also reminds me of my own kids. Their 3 wheelers, learning to ride. In today's times, they are tainted. Tainted in a world of materialism. The best part of "my story", I get to pick and choose what I want to keep and what I want to discard of. How can you taste the honey without tasting the bees? Yea, I know, someone already wrote that song. Yet, this song, is mine. Living in harmony with all the elements. Yes, that is what made me. A love so divine.