We sold our motorcycle. And along with it, our youth.
The electric-blue Honda Shadow that was our same vintage, 1984. We've known/seen three people die this past year on motorbikes—one of them a friend's husband, leaving her with two kids. We'd sell ours when we got pregnant, we said, like rational human beings. And then wham—it became symbolic. The first of many things we did when we were fun, before children.
It was a sad day. Ashamed to say it was lip-quiver crying.
