My father washed his motorcycle barefoot
I stood by in my shorts biting at my fingernail
My tiny stature in the shadow of his own
The cool water skipped off of the chrome and sizzled on the hot Texas cement
I stared up at the sky and beaded my eyes at the sun and wandered around him
He glanced down at me and I went and brought out my bicycle
He smiled warmly and ran his hand through my hair, and handed me the hose
I ineptly splashed my bike with water and dropped the hose
My eyes drawn to a chirping bird on the roof of the garage
It was morning and I watched it flap its wings and disappear into some
Pines as a breeze slighted my cheeks
I stood for an endless moment in numb gaze as my father resumed washing his motorcycle
Only to awaken as twenty-one-year-old child
Shaken from his visions
Who never finished washing his bicycle