There are moments when conditions are just so right, when an old man sits perfectly still, all sound recedes and it is silent, completely silent, his heartbeat seems alive in his ears, his eyes glaze over and dreams become reality, when the senses are so acute, when more than half a century can disappear and moments, certainly it could only have been moments, in time are remembered. Strange to him that it is remembered so vividly. His consciousness slurs and he is back in those moments.
The dust from the gravel covered back roads, the sun dappling through the dense overgrowth of maples, chestnut and elms reflected the road ahead in gauzy dreamlike patches of light and shadows.
The boy aboard his pedal powered steed, a black and red road master of the road, gliding alone, recording scents and sights, traveling through that time after childhood, but before that time when thoughts would change from those sense fulfilling moments without apprehension of tomorrow or guilt about yesterday, living only in the now, the joyful sense-provoking today. Tomorrow or those tomorrows yet to be were of no consequence except days, one after another in which to enjoy himself in this setting bequeathed to him certainly by kindly Gods. The future would yield its secrets in its own good time, when the boy would surrender his boyhood and lurch optimistically forward to meet it knowing if he faltered he had but to close his eyes and those graveled back roads and his black and red road master would be waiting for the boy, waiting to return him to that time, that moment when all was now and it couldn't get any better, a preview of heaven perhaps?
I don't know who painted the above picture so I cannot give due credit. I know I like it. I don't know if it is copy protected. If it is yours, I will certainly give credit and/or you don't wish it posted I will remove it at once upon your request.
The words above are mine.