From one Italian American family to another, our loved ones are always with us. Here’s a touching tribute retold here.
I have a recurring dream that tends to wake me up out of a sound sleep. In the dream, I’m riding a bike on 14th Street, the street where I grew up. I’m about 10 or 11 years old, and flying down the road, going like a bat out of hell.
There’s another kid on a bike in front of me, even faster. I can never catch him. He’s about the same age, pedaling furiously, like he’s trying to get away from me. The most specific details of the dream are the color of the sky – a deep, indigo blue, the kind you’d get just before a summer sunset – and the length of the ride.
You see, 14th Street is a side street just a few blocks long. In the dream, our two boy bike race goes on forever. The ride never stops.
Even though I can’t be…
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