The boy seemed quiet today. Unusually still. Didn't look sad, but he just sat there, on his bicycle in front of her house--no, tricycle, three wheels, not bicycle, two wheels.
Most days the boy was a symphony of movement, of laughter, the laughter she called joy, joy that made her smile, that gave her a reason to sit by the window.
She'd been watching him for weeks, maybe a month. Or two. No, not two--couldn't be.
Didn't matter.
She watched him because she had nothing else to do. Couldn't see well enough to read, nothing up close, but a boy on a tricycle pedaling up and down the sidewalk, nearly out of sight, then coasting back down, making the turn at her driveway--the blur of a child doing what children do.
Playing.
Perfect word, she thought. Almost like praying. Close to praying actually. If she could see better, she'd look them up, play and pray, find the etymology, words surely connected by more than a rhyme.
Well, rhyme itself was almost a prayer, a playful prayer. Rhyme made her thoughts memorable, and that made her happy.
Something she did well.
Even with nobody to tell.
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