In the scrapbook my mom made for me, there is a picture of me that holds a created memory. I can’t remember it specifically, but Mom has told me so many times and Dad has shown me his carefully captured video of that precious time in our life that I feel like can see in in my mind’s eye, relieve it.
My white spotted pink pants straddle my red tricycle. My fuzzy blue sweater has a picture of Mickey Mouse, I like that. I have shoes on because that was the rule, even though I need help to put them on. And as I ran outside Mom grabbed me and made me put on a helmet.
I start pedaling up the hill, all the way to Mr. Hank’s house. I stand up and sidled my trike around to face the way I came, Mom is watching from a chair in the garage holding Baby Jeffrey. I squirm my little bum on the white seat and grip the handlebars. Forgetting the peddles, I push away from the concrete with my feet. Once, twice, the trike begins to move, rolling down the hill, gaining momentum. I lift my feet out in front. The peddles turning by themselves. The trike is flying down the hill. it’s all I can do to hang on. If I put my feet down they would be snapped off by the peddles. I pass our garage and turn the handles toward the grass. At the last second I throw myself off the trike and land in the yellow grass, the trike landing next to me. I don’t know what breaks are. I laugh as Mom rolls her eyes and bounces Baby Jeffrey. I labor to right my trike and roll it to its starting position once more, pedaling to the top of the hill for another ride; Mom still watching,
“And that’s why she wears a helmet.”
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