Leaning Forward

        

        I'm on a motorcycle cruising home, as I often am when the weekend ends and four dollars is a small price to avoid a cramped bush taxi. Passing through Bomboaka, where colonial era Kapokie trees line the dusty national route, I get lost. Instead of Africa, I’m on campus during a gorgeous Montana spring, riding my bike across cobblestones to the day’s first period. Next, I’m cruising around Lake Harriet on a rented, fluorescent green bike, hoping to catch the Minneapolis summer before it slips away. Finally, and most lucidly, I’m on a similar moto in Thailand, cruising through Chiang Mai’s busy streets with a gentleman I met the night prior. I’m holding onto his waste and resting my head against his shoulder, hoping that we never make it to the theater and spoil the perfect journey. The Kapokie’s shade ends and I’m back in Africa, enshrouded in dust under a cloudless sky, surprised at how completely the memories took me over. I’m leaning forward such that, whenever we hit a bump or turn, my chest grazes his back. Moments of us connecting on a silent, sun-baked ride.