Ride a Motorcycle. CHECK.

Wind in my face. Solace blew through my heavy head like a light breeze. Peace was settling on the surface of my skull as I took in the sights. Lean left. Look over my uncle's shoulder. Lean right. Look over my uncle's shoulder. What's that sound? Scraping the floorboards on the turns. Where are we? New York. Mountains. Lakes. New Jersey. Back roads. No yellow lines. The air is cooler as we pass the thick pine trees. Not cold. My butt hurts. Not enough cushioning on this seat. Three hours. The sunshine is so warm. Four hours. I wonder what time it is. Not one minute is the same. A piercing memory slips in the back of my mind. It's so vivid. I rest my leather-gloved hands on the saddle bags. There were no other thoughts in my mind just moments ago. It's too real. Lift my arms to cut through the air. I don't cry. Last time I rode on the back of a motorcycle, I held on tight to the driver. Not for safety. I held on so tight. Not for fear. I held on tight. He was mine. I reminisce. Close wasn't close enough. Adrenaline. Hold on to me. Deeply in love. Don't let me go. Don't let me go.