for Kevin and Lauren

My sister and I had an antique
inherited from who knows where—
a heavy metal, fat rubber-tired
model that our father refurbished,
a slowpoke model that made it
harder for me, the klutzy one,
to fall off, but a form of transport
that neither of us clamored to ride.

Today, an ample half century after
we looked for wheels to carry us
around our rural neighborhood,
I walked a sidewalk that circled two
playing fields a couple miles away,
hearing a rhythmic clack-clack-clack
behind me, something coming lickety-split,
(clearly not another sneaker’d senior walker),
so I pulled right and paused to see
what could possibly—

and there, in red helmet and on a sharp
silver scooter rocketed my nephew—
or a kid who looked just like him
when he was about ten—rolling over
sidewalk sections and laying down
a percussive beat I could’ve marched to.

The kid zoomed by, saying nothing,
focused on what lay ahead, and I could
not stop the word or the laugh that
burst from me—Kevin!—because it
went by that fast for me, his childhood
and his sister’s, both of them now
grownup teachers, one of them still
scootering, both soaring into their futures,
always looking forward, wind in their faces,
advancing onward, Aunt Jan happily
applauding from behind.

Photo / Aunt Jan

About janishaag

Writer, writing coach, editor
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2 Responses to Scooter

  1. Sonya Hunter says:


    Sent from my iPhone


  2. Donna Just says:

    Great memories!!

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