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The Spirit of My Hometown
A new generation of young families has moved into my street over the past couple of years as part of an extensive invasion of my hometown, Bruunshåb.
Where they come from? I have no idea.
In this regard, I have a rule that I must not drive beyond second gear when I’m on our road. You never know when a ball-obsessed kid might come running out from a bush, or when the neighbor’s spoiled mutt might once again escape and act sanctimonious in my lane.
I have to be cautious because I have no desire to run anything over or be hypocritical. Admittedly, I haven’t been better myself.
We once had a couple of banana bikes, and I used to recklessly pedal away, cutting corners on the road to win the race. I had no idea what I was doing. I came close to becoming a decoration with a red theme on the hot asphalt once, when on a warm August evening in my early years, I was confronted head-on by the neighbor’s Ford in the bend.
I make a left turn; the surface changes from tiles to gravel. To the left is my former daycare, and I always glance through the lower right window. Down there, I once had my designated spot on the bookshelf, where I could easily squeeze in with my little figurine.
