20 The Top of Haddin’s Hill

When I was seven, I wanted to fly
Gripping the rubber of the handlebars–
I took off.
Don’t let go too soon
Pedaling faster faster faster
heart pounding pounding pounding.
The wheels carried me forward
Finally, the best moment of all–
letting go
Wind whipping my braids
Arms up in victory
Until
I flew
onto the pavement.

I can still imagine it—
the scent of bubbling hot tar on the country road
the crackle it made as my bicycle tire rode over
blue sky sheltering overhead
like glass
too delicate and too perfect to be real
the coppery taste as my tongue finds the split lip
Incongruous to the beauty of the day.
I picture my adult self returning to the hill
To fly and feel and soar!
Will muscle memory take over,
And will I finally get it right
this time?