The young lad holds his daddy’s hand and skips along the sidewalk. A group of children, hunkered down with knapsacks cross the street under the guidance of a guard, stop sign in hand. A black squirrel uses the wires to span the intersection, racing the current and disappearing into a giant oak. The light changes. Two yellow buses turn out into a lane from a side road, one to the right and one to the left. A breeze lifts a flag, then the next, flags lining Northwestern Avenue, Grant, and Bowman, all in the sunlight.
This is no strange land and I am no stranger but I have been gone for years. If I sense nothing but this on my short drive every morning, I acknowledge something abiding: a limp acquired from a dare, yet a race towards everything about tomorrow.
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