I have the Corolla now.
I drive it to church on Sunday mornings. I drive it to my granddaughter’s house in Madison once a month. In daylight. Because I choose to.
And I check my mirrors more often than any sixteen-year-old in the county.
Brian rides along with me sometimes.
He doesn’t grab the wheel.
But the red trike stays in the carport. Right beside the Corolla.
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, any errand inside the town limits, that’s what I take. The library. The bank. The Piggly Wiggly. Up the hill to see Walter.
There are seven of us on Wednesdays now.
Wilma got her sign. It hangs on a nail at the front of my carport.
It’s a small sign.
Shirley goes up the hill every Wednesday. She doesn’t cry anymore when she comes back to the gate. She just smiles and asks who’s buying the ice cream.
Eli keeps my bell oiled for me. He won’t take a dime for it. I bring him banana bread instead, and he doesn’t argue about that.
Last month, a woman from two towns over called me on the telephone. She was seventy-nine. Her son had just taken her car. She’d heard about us from a cousin.
“How do I start?” she asked me.
I told her to go to the bike shop in the old depot and ask for Eli. I told her to sit up straight like she’s in church.
And I told her not to lean.
And once in a while, on a warm morning, I ride down Main Street past those gold letters on my son’s front window.
And I ring my bell.
Just once.
And my son looks up from his desk. Every single time.
And he waves.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.