The bike sale ended on your birthday,
and we both knew they coudn’t hide it from me.
Pink with sparkles, a horse’s mane of colors
streaming from the handlebars.
You taught me how to ride it that day –
took off the training wheels,
and held onto the banana boat seat
while I pedaled with twitching legs.
Running beside me, you guided my steering.
You knew every crack and bump on our block.
You loosened your grip,
and as tears rushed from my eyes,
I pled with you
not to let go.
My handlebars wobbled,
and through wind-flooded ears I heard you say,
Keep going. Just keep going.