Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Bike Rider

Yesterday I stopped to smell a flower. It was purple, and at the border of each pedal was a string of white, as if lightly dipped in a pool of cream. I know nothing about flowers; it’s one of the many things I’d love to learn more about, but for now I simply appreciate the fact they make the world a prettier place.

I licked my lips, inhaled, and then a few feet ahead of me a man fell off of his bike. BANG, skidded to the ground, cut his left knee and even rolled a few times. So I moved towards him, away from the flower. I was about to bend down, see if there was anything I could do, but he quickly got up, brushing off debris and pretending nothing happened. He was obviously embarrassed of his fall, and therefore made no eye contact with me, regardless if I was only a few feet away, concerned and hovering.

I licked my lips, exhaled, releasing the smell of the flower I’d just taken. And the man limped. He pushed his bike until he was far, far away.

Someone told me something a few days ago I can’t get out of my head. “It’s amazing we’re alive. All the craziness in this world. It has to catch up with us.” This is by no means an original thought. On the contrary, it’s so ordinary that it’s easy to overlook.

So today I bought a book on flowers.

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