Reading about the three cyclists killed by a sheriff’s deputy who swerved over the centerline in California, it occurred to me again how we all walk among invisible heroes. It’s not easy to see them, camouflaged in their khakis and button downs as they disappear at work, or as they pick up our toys and stack our books and look in on us and softly rub our backs and smooth our hair as we sleep, or as they soar above us and swoop by us in a flash of color on their bikes, but they are among us.
Many elements of this story struck home: they were on a road that I would likely ride if I still lived in my hometown, she was cited for outclimbing elite men on a beautiful road that I always wanted to ride, but never felt good enough to attempt, my brother sent me this news just after he and I had spent a good day watching cyclists race nearby…
And so I searched for the site commemorating the life of one of the cyclists, but because the site is so new, Google hadn’t indexed it yet, and I accidentally clicked through to another site that had this post, which holds within it a poem from the Writers Almanac about fatherloss that describes how motherloss felt to me.
Especially because every Saturday night I use Mom’s sourdough starter to start the batter for our Sunday morning waffles, just as she did every Saturday night–batter that I use every Sunday morning, just as Dad did for myself and my siblings, to make waffles that 3B and Mama love, and that I use later for pizza crusts and pancakes.
Even after they leave us, our invisible heroes give us great gifts.