“My son was a burglar.”, mutters Esther as I worry that my missing sock is lost and scared. “I didn’t quite mind because he would occasionally bring me nice things from the places he was buglar-ing. And always red, my favorite color.” I’ll get back to her in a second…
My first bike was blue. Sadly, it’s not because I possess any faded Polaroid where I’m rockin’ a, “On My Way to Grandpa’s House…”, t-shirt or possess grandiose flashbacks of my crew and I tearing up the mean streets at age 3. I only know this because the blurry memory of a tiny sliver of paint.
I’ve had a fascination with “18 Wheelers” since I was a kid. I’m sure it stems from when my grandpa would take me down to this hill in his neighborhood which overlooked Interstate 40 and we would sit for hours trying to guess what could possibly be in those monoliths of freight. Surely for him it was just a way to get away from my grandmother and an easy occupier for his ADD grandson.
Capturing an image to me is akin to you hearing your favorite song on Pandora or noticing that your favorite movie has just been added to Hulu. There need be no real rhyme or reason to the subject, it’s just I find it disheartening when I’m not able to capture that “moment” when presented.
