Take back the blog! I'm going to reclaim my storytelling, set a trail through the jungle of emotion and fear under which I've been living. Say this: flash it. Flash this life. Bits of nonfiction, to take back this space, starting now.
Monroe at the border of five and six.
We buy him a new helmet but that doesn't change the way he rides, fists pulling at the handlebar grips like he might pull the bike apart, leaning into it not with fear or competition but with the intensity of love.
It is Wednesday, six days before his birthday when he learns to ride, learns by repetition, back and forth dozens of times on the sidewalk of the street near our house, on the sidewalk near the library. By afternoon he has earned his miles in the street. By Sunday he rides nine miles. Falls exhausted over his handlebars. Then at dusk demands to ride again.
It is not his only 11 mile day in his first week. On his birthday he rides 12. And everywhere he goes he pulls his handlebars, leaning over and talking to himself and singing, making up stories, saying sounds just for their joy. I watch him pedal behind me over my shoulder; I watch him beside me from the corner of my eye; I watch him in front of me, pulling and winding and weaving, everything about him defining a state of ecstacity.
By his birthday we are, all four of us, on bikes; by his birthday we are (as he says) a "team," and on July 10th when I must put him on the back of my bike again he slumps, spent, with the moony look of a new, true, love.
ads, which strive, which fail to yield
read my previous post . writing and speaking . an agent and a Mom 2.0 conference . 12 april 2013
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