ride of my cousin

My cousin arrived on his motorcycle, dust swirling behind him like poetry. He'd quoted Kannadasan during the drive, something about struggle and persistence. We laughed at his enthusiasm, though life had taught us caution. He'd finally earned enough through freelance work, enough to buy that bike he'd dreamed about since childhood. Not lazily acquired, but hard-won through countless nights bent over his laptop. We rode through our neighborhood as evening fell, waving at familiar faces. The warmth in their greetings reminded us why we stayed rooted here, why heritage mattered. Some journeys matter beyond destination.