He used to ride a tricycle up and down the street; throwing rose petals into the wind. People sat in their front lawns, looking on at his childlike behavior, pointing and laughing as he peddled by.

His tricycle had streamers on the handlebars of red, blue, and silver. The frame was a shiny purple. He named it Grover. 

The old man had dreams of riding the bike to another town, and another after that till he got to the West Coast. He wanted to spread joy.

One summer’s morning as the whippoorwills sang and roosters crowed, the old man left the small Iowa town he’d grown up in. Rode his tricycle out to the highway and headed west. He was gone. Like that, he’d disappeared.

That night, neighbors sat in their folding chairs waiting for the old man’s nightly ride. They carried their cans of beer and cocktails out to the front yards of America and waited until it grew dark. They’re still waiting for his return.