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There is a child waiting ...

It is an ordinary town before becoming part of a medium-sized southern city. Transportation is rural, like the bus three times a day, like bicycles that run like butterflies in summer. It is an ordinary town before becoming part of a child's heart forever.

There is a child there waiting on the afternoons of those sunny days to ride his first bike, circle the park, take a tour of the Calle Mayor and return home for dinner. Never alone, with or without friends, but accompanied by his bike.



The bicycles are called baikas, the tricycles are tricycles and the brave ones that go fast down the slopes of the hills. In this town isolated by time, it has long been a town that no longer has those bicycle racks, which now has bicycle lanes and traffic police, because summers fly like spokes on a 28 ”Tourism tire. There is a development in children that makes them change, they stop seeing objects as toys and now see them differently, they are tools, they are utensils, they are vehicles.

Thus has one more innocence gone through the crazy days of the last summer that has been a child, infant. That is how that look ends, now it is a look that distinguishes work from play, the taste of duty. However, in the memory there is a child there waiting for the afternoon to go out to ride a bike.

__________


Ahí hay un niño esperando…


Es un pueblo común antes de convertirse en parte de una mediana ciudad del sur. El transporte es rural, como el colectivo tres veces al día, como las bicicletas que corren como mariposas por verano. Es un pueblo común antes de convertirse en parte del corazón de un niño para siempre.


Hay un niño ahí esperando las tardes de esos días soleados para dar vueltas en su primera bicicleta, dar vueltas al Parque, hacer un recorrido por la Calle Mayor y regresar a cenar a casa. Nunca solo, con amigos o sin ellos, pero acompañado de su bici.


Las bicicletas se llaman baikas, los triciclos triciclos y valientes los que andan rápido por las bajadas de las colinas. En ese pueblo apartado por el tiempo es, desde hace tiempo un pueblo que ya no tiene esos bicicleteros, que tiene ahora ciclovías y policías de tránsito, pues los veranos vuelan como los radios en una llanta de Turismo de 28”. Hay en los niños un desarrollo que le hace cambiar, dejan de ver los objetos como juguetes y los ven ahora de otra forma, son herramientas, son utensilios, son vehículos.


Así se ha ido una inocencia más por los días alocados del último verano que ha sido niño, infante. Así se acaba aquella mirada, ahora es una mirada que distingue el trabajo del juego, el gusto del deber. Sin embargo, en la memoria hay un niño ahí esperando la tarde para salir a andar en bici.

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