"In my late 20s I learned..."
something I could have
should have
might have wanted to learn
when I was a small child
except that Dad died.
The bike came the year
I stopped believing in Santa
which was because of the bike
which could not have possibly
fit down the chimney.
The bike: I couldn't quite
get the hang of it
despite his efforts
and then he died.
He died and Mom couldn't
help me learn either.
So the bike went in the garage
until it was too small.
Besides, no one bikes in LA in the 80s anyway.
All through my middle 20s
C. wanted me to learn
how to ride a bicycle.
When we met he had the
John Deere tractor green bike
that he rode on those steep
Tacoma hills.
Except when
I came through the park
to his apartment
and we walked to work together.
That was how everyone knew
we were a thing, us walking
together, him with the hand-painted green bike.
He tried to take me bike shopping.
I was terrified of being
that far off the ground
and of moving at a speed
faster than walking.
Looking out the window
of my first office, first real
grown-up profession,
and he's on the phone
explaining how, no -- really--
I have to see this bike
it's totally different
from all the other times --
five -- six -- seven years of
"you should get a bike."
But really -- it is different.
The bike is different,
the shape of it isn't so scary
and maybe by then
I'm different too.
Because I get on and after
a wobbly how-do-I-start-this moment
I'm moving and pedaling
and somehow the whole thing
stays up and is a sort of
miracle not unlike flying.