The fountain of youth under the pipeline
Four decades later, I return to the pipeline. The dragon's
tail is less pronounced, and full-grown trees
hide the view of homes on Sycamore.
“Hey, Ant! You got a third eye!” Gary yells but it doesn’t help me see much better.
Fumbling, I pick up my twenty-six-inch Schwinn, but I drop it just as quickly. Then pick it up again. Holding it up, it’s holding me up.
Gary is staring at me. I sense this more than I see it. Can’t see much of anything really. Gary looks like a tree, the bike in my hand, a tangled red bush. The world isn’t spinning but it’s coming in cloudy. I sense something tremendous has transformed my eight-year-old body.
“That’s what happens when your bike hits a rock on the pipeline,” Gary explains.
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