Out of the open and into the cracks

Like Persian cats named Pumpkin, they creep in silently, these end-of-summer days. Dressed in my finest pilgrim's garb, the breeze blows past me and imparts memories of youth and school (can you hear the children call? Can you smell the aging books?). I almost forget that I am old. On the weekend I will do a bicycle tour across Quebec. Alone. It is to remind me of the importance of the journey and to develop the skills of the cat. Silently I will pulse down carless veins until I reach my parents' house and am greeted by their ghosts. Then I will eat my little granola bar, grab a little nap, and push on, without purpose, into these end-of-summer days.