Those Minutes Just Before Twilight

A September summer evening grey. Those minutes just before twilight. When a person thinks this day may pause just as it is, right now, and I would be just fine with that.

Perhaps the day pauses. Perhaps a person dreams. Thoughts that run through one’s mind just before death. The mind, such a powerful and imaginative thing. A person sees things in that short instant. Things such as ah, so I lived to sixty-eight. I have known all along.

A September summer evening grey.  Later, maybe it rains. It feels like it could. It certainly looks like it could. In a neighborhood in a typical small American suburb. A neighborhood a kid might sense is alive. Watching his every move. Planning, plotting? Who knows. A kid hops on his bike and rides north to the quiet end of the road. He thinks this day should pause. Right now. I wish it would.

Off he goes. Pedaling fast, faster, faster yet. A coolness on the early September summer evening. Houses whip past on the right, on the left. They blur as he pedals his bike south towards the noisy end of the road. Houses so blurred they are houses no more, but stories. This neighbor and that neighbor. A kid used to live here in this house, another there in that house; people are always moving away. Faster he pedals. The burn in his thighs.

A kid on a bike pedaling fast, faster, faster yet. Around the corner. Wide.

Thoughts that run through a kid’s mind ah, so I lived to sixty-eight. A September summer evening grey decides to rain. It blurs his motionless form in the road, and where metal is mangled and twisted and paint-chipped, the kid’s bike and the shocked driver’s car begin to rust.

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