Several weeks ago, before the loss of my bike, the poncho which I kept in my handbar basket left me. A small breach of trust, a fairly inexpensive outer covering best replaced, anyway. Nevertheless, it was a goodbye my hands did not offer, one to which they did not wave.
Around the same time, the sun set earlier than ever and slept in past a prudent hour. It hoarded daylight hours and the warmth of short shadows. Now, the fall leaves have finally come to a rest, their blazing colors taken by the soil or the quick dustpans of fastidious grounds crews. The trees have withdrawn the buds of spring, the cold air has tightened my nose and the smell of flowers is hidden from view. At night, sometimes I remember the voice of the river that still runs there along the path with me. I hear it waiting for me to see its sound again.
As I pulled my bike into the parking shed of my building, enjoying the delayed gratification of a dinner not yet started, I slowly pulled my lock from the basket and fetched the key from my pocket. So many bikes in our crowded shed, and more to come in the next hour as people retreated home from the cold. The end of a day of reawakened practicing, of a concert program of French music, of Japanese study with amusing example sentences ("How many TVs are in your dorm?" "There are two, but I don't watch TV?" "Why don't you watch TV?" "Because I don't understand Japanese."), of baseball teams training for spring, and accordion players practicing in open spaces. It was the end of a day of appreciating uncertainty in both the clutch of practical planning and the release of carefree openness.
As I slowly locked my bike my eyes found the wall of the shed. On it lay my poncho. For how long had it been waiting for me to see it? Waiting quietly, patiently without patience for me to return to it?
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