Wednesday, December 21, 2011
It's like riding a bike,
unless you have never ridden one
you would think at fourteen he would have, or desired the freedom or wind in his hair, the sweet kiss of tires on asphalt or the fear laced thrill of lifting your hands to your side as you fly.
my bike carried me miles from home to cut grass, to see friends, to chase dragons back to their caves and rocket me into space and
he is a maelstrom of excitement and fear, unsure of himself and reliving all the times he has been told he could not, not because he couldn't but because of who he was, what he was---the knife at his throat, insecurities of a man bent to make his son smaller than himself---before he ran off
you are good for nothing-weak, i oughta kick your ass--
and he did
and he did
there are moments i have to turn away, to catch my breathe and push back the thoughts that enter my mind, of meeting the fathers of the father-less, less fathers than
and he says, "don't let go"
as we start, handlebars dancing at the first bit of forward motion, but i know it is coming, i told him it was coming, and he will crash and craSH and CRaSH
skin his knee and bleed, but smile when he finally gets it, finally believes, and is free, frEE, FReE
leaving me behind, a solitary shadow with cheeks damp, knowing i may never see him again, but he will always be a gift given me, even if only for a moment as i move on to the next.