Hands once strong and ripe with veins,
Grease in every crease and crinkle
And caked under broad and chipped fingernails,
Now at rest forever.
Tools that once cherished trials of strength,
Of twisting and torque;
Remain stacked neatly in a red metal chest;
Curious for lack of use,
Awaiting the sliding of the drawer,
And the grasp of the master tuner.
Bikes line up along a garage wall,
Waiting for the door to raise
And their pilot to return,
Their dreams of flight fading.
Riders gather to bump, buzz, and whir
Over trails caked with memories.
A rider at the back is dropped,
A derailleur is bent,
A wayward comment goes unchecked.
Looks are exchanged - unspoken sentiment -
"He wouldn’t have let that happen"
"He would know how to fix it best"
"He would have said this..."
And it is understood what is meant
By the saying "the silence is deafening."