on my bike.

i was young.

i took a curve the wrong way. the bike slipped from under me. i went sliding across the intersection.

picked myself. bloodied.

and rode that bike on home.

three long gashes down my arm, over my elbow.

i sat curled up in this chair that is long gone, curled up with a rag pressed, not so much trying to stem the tide as clean my arm.

to see how bad things were.

i dont know if i ever rode that hard after, though i'm sure i did. i dont carry any scars from that day, at least none that i can see, and none i try to find.

a few years later my mom threw my bike away. she thought it was broken.

or, at least, that's the excuse she gave my sister.

i didnt know about her throwing the bikes away. not until after she had done it and i wanted to ride my bike.

i havent had a bike since.

i look at bikes and i think. yeah. i want one.

i have forgotten what bike rides feel like. i have forgotten how to ride hard and cut my elbows on bad turns.

some part of me thinks if i knew that again, if i rode away with my legs and not my car, or my heart or soul or inners, things would be happy.

good.

and young again.

then, though, there is always that fear. of another bike being thrown away. mistakenly and without consent.