Seed Across Snow

Green Bike

56 Green Bike Upon waking, I realized it was the first present he’d bought me on his own. when I turned past the platoon of lawn mowers, the broad bronze and avocado washers, I knew immediately what we’d come after. There beyond the sexy curves of the european racers, and the wide tires of the all-terrain—I stopped, knowing he was headed toward sweet lime green and daisies, the wicker basket and pink. He leaned over the handlebars, pushed it back and forth, then with satisfaction, nodded to me Yes! Yes! This is it!“what do you think! Nice, huh!” “nice,” my mother later repeated, spooning gray peas onto my plate,“wasn’t it nice of your father?” even then I knew what I was supposed to be. even then I was afraid of hurting him; it would be like treating a stranger rudely. Nice. Be nice. That word, frozen at its center. even after he’s dead all these years, I still want to be nice. But, what was rising in me then was not. Huddled upstairs, I heard his car pull into the drive, after traveling all week, the garage door opened easily on its pulleys, rocking slightly like a surprise just coming into the mouth—and there inside, that black and rotten tooth. That black matte secret of a bike sprayed with a wheezing can of paint, chopped down, forked out, streamer-less, and stripped of all lime green. 57 In his absence, I had pedaled all week through bare fields, pumping furiously, dared to do it, I gained speed, and up, up the ramp, then I lifted high into the air, reaching for him in my own way, reaching as I do in all dreams of him now. ...