She might as well have been riding a broom stick, the way she flew down the street.

With no metal surrounding her - no frame, no seat belt, no air bag - the midnite Air element in full communication across her face. Two wheels and all the freedom in the world.

Speed proportional to her strong limbs’ whims. In the moment soaring on momentum.

She was flying down the street Wicked Witch of the West Coast style on a bike magnificent as the countenance of pleasure on her face. She obviously enjoyed riding. Very much so indeed.

But she was shy. Or pretended to be. Either way, I could not get her to look toward me as she rocketed by. What world is she living in? Oblivious to how oppressive long summer can be. Her world full of mystery and saturated with levity. Her own little game she is winning every day. I wonder if she cries sometimes like me.

Yes, she does. Autumn cries. Autumn soars and Autumn pretends and Autumn, the cousin I never had, finds me every year no matter where I am, though this year I was sure she wouldn’t come. I thought maybe she died. Or forsook the United States altogether for some other romantic land where everything moves in slow motion and no one remembers their given name.

I'm younger now and something tells me that adoration is cultivated separation and so I choose to suddenly and successfully be Disenchanted - no longer will I seek. You don't look for something you've already got. I’m ready to be. I have a place here and it is important, what I am doing.

Autumn … and you still have use for me.

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