Pushing a scooter around a cracked and broken tennis court on a warm Martin Luther King Day’s night in a park off a cul-de-sac in the outskirts of Honolulu. I saw it from above, flying by on the freeway. I want to believe she’ll take that memory with her forever, because I want to believe I’ll take my equivalent memory—flying down a no-longer-used street on my bike, pedaling as if I was breaking free of my training wheels for the first time—with me forever.