I wasn’t allowed to go to the North End until I was seven. “It can wait,” my mother always said, when I pleaded to enter what was thought to be the Bermuda Triangle of Van Dyke Road — this untouched, unspoiled, terrifying (so obviously magical) place. Certainly, I thought, when I received a banana seat bike for my sixth birthday, that this would be my ticket of entry. How could I not be ready? I was without training wheels. Surely a sign I could navigate on my own. With one leg flung over the seat and the other used as a kick stand, I pointed north. But still she said, “It can wait.” How patient is nature, I thought.

I see it now, how brilliant it was to flip the switch. To make me think that I wasn’t the one waiting. It was waiting for me. I had a whole year. An entire sea of gravel to explore before entering the North End. And didn’t it make it all the more special? And didn’t it do the same for me? Imagine, the North End was waiting for me.

I raced down the hill just past Norton’s. I’ll be there soon, I waved in promise, and raced back to Dynda’s to land my bike in the ditch and explore the never ending empty lot that separated their house from mine.

I can still get ahead of myself. Too anxious. Too eager. But when I remember, when I allow myself “the sixth year” to just enjoy, I can let go of what will be, and simply be aware of all that I have.

I recently finished the book, “The River is Waiting,” by Wally Lamb. It was a difficult book to get through. But there was one line that sticks with me — “Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.” I read it again. And again. And I am six. Perched on a joyful seat. Pointing north. Happy to not yet be there.