It is, i suppose, ironic.

I just discovered that he died a decade ago, killed in a car accident. According to the reports, his father found him. According to the reports, there are no other reports.

The irony part is that the last time I saw him, the only time I saw him, he was riding a bicycle erratically. His father watched him.

So did mine.

Richard and his family came to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, came all the way from a country in Africa, by way of a nearby college. Richard’s father was a student.

I have no knowledge of the connections that brought them to our house. It was forty years ago. My father can’t tell me.

Some time before they came, weeks before, a bicycle had been abandoned on our driveway. My father took it to the police, looking for an owner. And now, on Thanksgiving, he found that Richard didn’t have a bicycle. So my father called the police. Who took us to the lost bicycle room at the police station. Where Richard picked out a bicycle with high-rise handlebars and a banana seat.

There are no pictures on paper. In my heart is a picture of Richard grinning, riding, needing much practice. I assume he got better.

Richard has died. His brother has as well. His sisters write, having taken up residence in countries far from their birthplace. His parents are, as well as I can tell, alive. They are still at home. His father has an Internet record of arrests, having lived at great personal risk writing stories of the abuses of the government in the country where they came from for Thanksgiving dinner.

I wonder if they remember our house. And the bicycle. I’m thankful that I remembered them. And have a broken heart.