Every now and then, it would be so warm that my father would take his pillow out onto the front steps. He'd lie down with his feet on the second step, knees bent. I often took my pillow out, too, and lay next to him, loving the whole idea of being out at night, resting there, looking up into our maple tree, the leaves patterned against the dark sky with here and there a star winking, or the moon floating in a haze.
Even better were the times when my father would get out the bicycle for a nighttime ride. It didn't matter that I was in my pajamas. I'd run down to the curb, and he'd help me hop up sidesaddle onto the crossbar; off we'd go, making a cool breeze as he rode. We glided into the night air down the streets of his old neighbourhood, and he'd point out the houses of where he lived as a child, where aunts and uncles lived, where friends lived and what they did or what they cooked or said. He talked about what their yards used to look like, how they used to go fishing or the nicknames they had. Sometimes he'd lapse into a silence for awhile, just thinking. Then he'd point out a tree or shrub or flower to me and tell me what it was or how to take care of it. All the while the wind was cool and I felt not the least bit tired.
When we'd get home, I would almost fall getting off the bike because my leg would have fallen asleep from sitting on that crossbar for so long. I never stumbled in front of him, and I never told him, either. I never wanted those bike rides to end.
