Yelling and singing in the dark, riding in circles in the park.
One of the best nights of my life, spent with boys I know and love.
Feeling we could take on the world.
Making the glorious pilgrimage to the fast-food joint that serves all night.
I’m riding Andre’s brother’s bike. He rode it when he was eight years old.
The wind caresses my grown-out shaggy hair, making my black funeral scarf fly behind.
The scarf gets caught on my eyes, leaving me for a few seconds blind.
The three of us make a grand trio. We never plan what we get up to on these nights.
No girls, no drama, no fights. Only unconsciously finding trouble.
On this particular night, the cheap, greasy meal tasted better than ever.
The way back, we’re stopped by a pair of cops, to fine us for not wearing helmets.
Andre utilizes his clever tongue, pulling the funeral card, telling them of the loss of our fourth companion.
The wolves decide to leave us troublesome sheep for today, in search of an easier meal.
We arrive home and return the bikes to their assigned spots in Andre’s garage.
The floor felt nice that night, sleep coming easy that we’d had a grand night.
Creating iconic stories to tell our grandchildren.
It’s unintentional I swear, it happens every time.
St Andrew’s College