I feel the beating of my heart. More like racing, really.
I feel the clamping around my ribs and back. Not uncomfortable at all, actually very snug and supportive.
A large gum tree ramshackles its way past my line of vision.
Next I see an esteemed old home float by, followed closely by a young mother, proudly pushing her stroller along the road as she and her new-born child journey through the neighbourhood.
A pole comes next, and I just glimpse that the street light attached to it has been vandalised and the cover is smashed.
Hair across my cheek, as our movement insists it does.
A rubbish truck roars by, leaving behind its graphically aromatic signature of the contents inside.
Holding on tightly still, whirling, reeling, even quicker now than before.
The corner shop with its old damaged sign announcing “Milk Ba” in faded letters, excluding the letter r at the end where the piece had broken off.
No matter how long passes between each meeting, our spinning hugs are always wonderous and excitedly anticipated.