Two Halves Make a Whole

Searching for an alternative route behind Colchester High School.

I am lucky. Whether it's for a day ride or tour, I'd choose my husband over anyone for a companion. He taught me that to travel is to be, to explore. Not that we don't have goals, but the primary reason is the journey. There is no competition between us, which is the way I like it. I've always been on the slow side. He's the one tending the camp stove, pitching the tent, packing the car for extended trips. Standing still is torture for him so he does more than his share when it comes to getting us out the door.

I am into the details: deciding on food, water, enough stuff to keep me warm, worrying about accommodations. I teach my husband to notice flowers, birds, unusual trees, shapes of trunks. Or at least I look at it that way. I'm more verbal. Sometimes a veritable chatterbox and when we're alone he often gives me that look, which says "needing to talk, huh." It's a recognition, something only longtime companions understand. If I was to classify our relationship it would be that we began as a couple of adventurers and are still living out a lifelong trip.

Leaving the kids alone for a couple hours, my husband and I set out on a loop.

Once equal halves,
half of a cycling pair.
Two halves content for years,
but then while two halves
often spawn,
dividing,
adding
two extra halves.
All become quarters
of the pie.
Two young quarters branch,
chase horizons of their own,
no longer cradled in the dish.
So, bigger quarters set off
alone,
spinning,
breathing
on brisk December ride.
Meshing,
learning
once again
what it's like
to be two halves of a whole.