Motorcycle
There once was a man who did not smoke or drink. He did not do drugs. He did not ride a motorcycle. He used to ride a motorcycle, then he had a kid and he didn’t ride his motorcycle as much. Then he had a second and third kid and he sold his motorcycle. He even gave up his old truck to drive a newer truck; one with less miles and more reliability. He went to work. He played basketball. He had a garden. He watched football. He no longer rode a motorcycle.
There once was a woman who did not smoke or do drugs; she did not drink much. She rode with the man on the motorcycle once or twice…before their first child. She took care of the children. She taught. She played in the theatre a bit. And she cried when he rode the motorcycle alone. She saw her life without him and she cried. She knew of his need to ride the motorcycle, but her fear won in the end. She didn’t ask him to, but he sold the motorcycle.
There once was a girl who always hugged her parents when they left. There was a boy who needed his parents to remind him that he was loved. There was a younger boy who ran to the door whenever his parents returned. There were others, yet unnamed, who needed to hear his laugh. They are the reason he sold his motorcycle.
There once was a family whose favorite time of the year was spent by the blue mountains…as a family. They worked, and played, and dreamed there…as a family. They loved the little red house with the green roof. They welcomed friends as family. They welcomed family as friends. They were happy…and this is why she cried when he rode his motorcycle.
There once was a plan. The man and the woman would spend their years together in the little red house. They would leave the blue mountains only to see the world together. They would take every opportunity to say yes. They would dive into warm seas, walk ancient streets, drink strong coffee…perhaps they would rent a motorcycle.
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