Both wore spandex cycling shirts in blazing yellow with all sorts of advertising slogans plastered in place, paid for by many cycling sponsors.
Souvenirs of a recent biking race.
And our son stood as tall as his dad now, with dark hair that matched his father’s.
And sweaty ones.
“Are we going home now?” Our youngest daughter hung her 12-year-old head out the window.
“We have to get their bikes loaded on top,” I said, “and then we will.”
She shook her head. “How far did they ride this morning?”
“About 30 miles.”
“Glad it was them.” She hopped out of the car. “Can we go inside? I want to buy a snack.”
We found her snack and then came back outside. The SUV had been moved to the curb in front of the store and my husband, still wearing his yellow cycling jersey, was bent over the engine compartment with the hood raised.
The thought of how well he cared for his family welled up in me and I walked up behind him to give him a hug and kiss from behind.
My arms were out for the embrace when I stopped.
This was not my husband.
This was my son. Bookends, remember?
I never told him how close he came to a snuggly hug and kiss from his mom. I have always been pretty sure he really didn’t want to know.