Lifetime procurer of various un-sundry goods and items, my Uncle apparated in the driveway with a white van and a heavy load of used bikes his countless children were no longer small enough to ride. One man’s trash.
My littlest sister didn’t know how to ride a bike, which I suppose was fine because it’s not like we were leaving the house or had bikes to begin with.
My raggedy purple Magenta one was stolen a while back, and the pink and white one that was donated to her by the neighbors was a size too small for her long legs. It had training wheels though, so she forced a smile while smashing the little pedals jerkedly before giving up to go inside and watch her tablet.
That was then, this is now. We’re finally not living like a pack of canned sardines anymore. It’s the reopening. It’s purgatory and Virgil’s hand is out, beckoning.
We can venture out a bit without being scared mice ready to dash back into a hole in the wall. It’s still a little disheartening to watch the states and countries that watched us scramble and peak all these months deal with their own mounting bodies.
The junky garage quickly becomes the bicycle graveyard. There are big ones, thick ones, skinny rake looking ones, mountain bikes, and trikes of all colors. The one my dad favors doesn’t have a seat. My sister’s favorite is black and dark green and monster truck yellow.
When she first got on she beamed with happiness through every fall, through every stop and start, through every confusing encouragement. By the end of the week, she was circling the backyard. After two weeks, she was flying up and down the block like a wayward baby shark.
“Eventually, she’s going to want to leave the block, you know that right?” I ask Pops, rhetorically, knowing all too well that he tends to hold on too tight. I used to think it was because he hated the world, a large Black man screaming into the void syndrome that’s only ever known two emotions and can’t fathom that there are more. I get that he fears the world will be as callous to his daughters as it was to him. That his girls are smaller and just as brown and he won’t always be there, so he holds tight. He tries to cradle us the way he would a football to his forearm and chest because it’s the only secure action that makes sense.
As he stands with my Uncle laughing, I can tell he thinks about what it means to let go or just leaving the fear behind.
To go with.
They ride together now, my Pops and littlest sister, whenever they can, taking off to the park or around the block like it’s a grand adventure. Because of his eyesight, he still hugs the sidewalks, but he’s out there nonetheless.
We’ve swum through the first wave of the tsunami in this city, and now amidst the reopening, everyone’s just awkwardly bracing for the aftershocks, especially with the schools reopening too.
It’s nice to see them so happy.
At least we have outside and rain and running and riding fast downhill to live for.
