The long road home was slick with the tire tracks of my tarnished bike.
Too old to be of function, too sentimental to dismiss.
It had been a gift from my grandfather, hand-painted and marked with the intentions
Of love and devotion. Through this gift, the birds sang sweetly the song of hope, but leaving a sour aftertaste because, I fear birds.
In the old oak tree, I sat with him, as he told me stories of his past—“didn’t that instill an endless yearning in your heart, Grandpa?” The loss that he had experienced throughout his life was inconceivable, and yet, he carried on, resolute for the ones who couldn’t be. Speaking for those unspoken, with words that could never be unsaid.
I wish for so much more for him, that he can resolve that the new have brought him happiness.