The store marks the way to my house. They call it the posro. It’s a small square structure, no bigger than ten paces across; a terracotta tiled roof rises like a pyramid. Rice, rye, and red lentils fill tin cans alongside chickpeas, chillies and cumin seeds, purveyed by a gentle, grey-haired man.
The sun’s beating down. I wheel my bike to the store, turn around, take the steel handlebars in my hands, and put one foot on the peddle, the other firmly on the black tarred road. I’ve been struggling to find my balance for a few hours now with little success.
I focus. The road slopes down before me – a ribbon of freedom for a ten-year-old.
I thrust forward. Gravity does the rest, and I glide down. Slow and wobbly at first. Then pick up speed. The road is now a blur. I’m flying.
Don’t look down or you’ll lose your balance, my father had told me.
Read the full article in the September Issue of the Joao Roque Literary Journal