Monterey Bay, Monterey, California

I went out for my Sunday morning romp. It was chilly, the good kind that wakes you up and makes you want to push. I cruised through Monterey, passed the pier and boats, through Cannery Row, which always makes me rummage through my head to recreate the past. I slipped by Lovers Point, through Asilomar, passed the surf-break, and up into the hills. It’s always a hard climb, but I was feeling strong. I felt relaxed on my descent down through the hills, hands on the drop bars, legs absorbing the bumps, the wind ripping passed my ears, eyes tearing. I rounded  a corner at the bottom and fell into a rhythm. 

A detour through the cemetery has become routine, so without thought, I turn in. Immediately, I notice more flowers and people than usual. Oh, that’s right, it’s memorial day. As I pass the thousands of graves, each life, and its what, who, and where expand. I glide by a family in a car and I’m out of my seat, standing on the pedals, coasting along, watching a woman place flowers next to a grave, and it’s all about them and them and them. I hear the ticking of my freewheel, and images start to drop through my mind, mother father, friend cousin, aunt uncle, all passed––and the freewheel ticks slow and slow some more, and the morning ceases to be just a day with a name and turns into a shared experience.