Memory

Nostalgia.  The tube socks on the professional basketball stars of my childhood were the same type my dad wore when I was a kid.  Two or three bold color rings at the top of the long white stretch cotton.  My dad had a sweet hook shot.  He grew up on paved Chicago basketball courts, but I remember seeing his hook shot on the dirt and gravel driveway hoop at our house.  And I remember him showing me that hook shot.  And I practiced it.  And I learned it.  And I still use it.  We have always been very close, my dad and me.  And my dad is much older now.  And now my dad doesn't remember me. 

author! author!

We are all given the same sky.

Privileged

I rode my bicycle in circles.  Around and around in tighter and tighter circles, arcing a suburban parking lot. I had made it, from my home, with my friends, to that local shopping center for the first time.  My first time away from my parents, by my own power and will.  There was a grocery store, a hardware store, the dime store (now a dollar store), a drug store, and a laundromat.  You couldn't possibly need anything else in that town, and I no longer needed my parents to get there.
I rode my bike with my friends, in that parking lot.  Around that parking lot.
And I found a reason to swear.
"Hell", I said. And I felt strong.
"Hell", I said.  And I knew I earned it.
And because my parents are good, and strong, and would disapprove of my language,
I knew it was wrong, but without them, there would have been nothing to embrace.
"Hell", I said.