Choosing perspectives, choosing words.

We are lucky enough to live about a ten-minute walk away from one of the largest – and most beautiful – lakes in western Europe. There are some lovely parks and trails along its shore, where I like to run or walk. Usually it's nice to be there, but sometimes it isn't, especially on the weekends, when it seems like every pregnant lady, stroller-pushing mama, and happy little family in this region are there too. Seeing them causes my thoughts to turn towards dark places.

What made me the want to cry the most this weekend was seeing a dad riding a bike with his little boy following right behind him on a tandem attachment. I thought immediately of Gilles. He loves cycling, and I know he would be so happy to share something like that with his child.

When he and I were together again later that day, I wanted to talk to him about how I'd felt watching the father and son ride away together on their three-wheeled contraption. Namely: stuck. Futile. Left behind, both literally and figuratively. But I did not speak of my sadness, telling him instead, simply, "I hope one day that will be you."

His response? "One day that will be me."

He's always full of hope. Perhaps it's catching.

Or perhaps I just wanted to see his smile.