I was driving home from working on the brick house, my mind whirring away on this thing and that thing, like it does. I glimpsed a young girl in her front yard, trying to do cartwheels, being encouraged by a dapper elderly gentleman with white hair and a mustache, who had his hands up over his head and was standing sideways, evidently deep in explanation. She tried again, but it was more like a somersault.
That first cartwheel is scary stuff, a leap of faith, an act of courage, and you could see that she was not happy with her effort as she got to her feet. Grandpa's hands remained in the air, his feet spread, his mouth moving. And then he flipped a perfect cartwheel right there in the yard. The evening sun shone on his white head as he continued in earnest conversation with the child, who watched intently.
It was so unexpected that I laughed out loud.