Around this time last year, I had just returned from my trip to Greece.
And it was my mother's birthday. Little did I, or anyone, know it would be her last.
Before taking a quick ride out to Flushing Meadow Corona Park (site of the climactic Men In Black scene and the "the valley of ashes in The Great Gatsby), I called my father. Though he is not religious, he went to church and lit a candle in honor of my mother, who was not terribly religious but attended mass and lit candles. We agreed that it was strange--and, for him, lonely--to experience her birthday without her.
Of course, I was thinking about those rides I took along the ocean during my visits with her and Dad in Florida and my high school days in New Jersey. She never rode with me (or anyone, as far as I know) but she never discouraged me from cycling. She seemed to understand that it was, and always would be, part of who I am.
As she is.
And it was my mother's birthday. Little did I, or anyone, know it would be her last.
Before taking a quick ride out to Flushing Meadow Corona Park (site of the climactic Men In Black scene and the "the valley of ashes in The Great Gatsby), I called my father. Though he is not religious, he went to church and lit a candle in honor of my mother, who was not terribly religious but attended mass and lit candles. We agreed that it was strange--and, for him, lonely--to experience her birthday without her.
Of course, I was thinking about those rides I took along the ocean during my visits with her and Dad in Florida and my high school days in New Jersey. She never rode with me (or anyone, as far as I know) but she never discouraged me from cycling. She seemed to understand that it was, and always would be, part of who I am.
As she is.
