I drew a long breath filled with the scent of newly-flowered lilies as I crossed the street. The air was quiet, unusual for this time of day. My head was clouded with the remainder of what had just happened, yet I somehow remembered to place one foot in front of the other and walk. Left, right. Left, right I told myself silently, trying to push out thoughts of what had happened only moments before. I let out a sigh as the sharp pain in my right leg blazed on. There was a deep scratch running down it, and my arm had been bruised quite severely. Still, I carried onward towards my favorite part of the city.
Feeling slightly winded, I pulled my oversized neon green hoodie off and parked myself on the curb of 22nd street. I sat in silence for a while, thinking about my newly acquired bruises and scrapes. They too would eventually form scars that told a story. But for now, I waited quietly for the moment to come when I would spring forth and dash across the busy intersection. It likely wouldn't be coming any time soon.
My chance came some twenty minutes later. I sprung up and sped across the street, just barely making it before the red light turned green once more for an indefinite amount of time. I stopped to look at the park where I had played as a child, sitting before me as a moldable piece of clay; I was free to do whatever I wanted here. I could finally clear my head, finally forget the semi-tragedy that had occurred earlier that afternoon.
I sat on the swings for a while, finally deciding that I just had to go back to the big tree again. I was blank and unfocused as I skipped over to the large sycamore that seemed to be calling my name. I felt my knee buckle a little and winced in pain as I collapsed under it, happy to feel the wind of my childhood in my hair again. I played with the grass and ants for a while before I grew bored. I sat back in my personal cool green bed and proceeded to stare up at the clouds passing me by.
It was not long before dusk began to settle in on me. The mosquitoes were already making a haven of my forearm, and frankly, it was time for dinner. I got up from my refuge and threw my hands into the pockets of my faded Levi's. The streets were not so busy at eight as they were at rush hour. My scrapes and bruises still seemed to mock me, even in the quickly dimming light. I sped up in an effort to reach the dining room table before the street lights came on.
It was as I was rounding the corner of my desolate street that I paused, partly in dread, partly in hope. My brand new bike was lying just where I had left it on the front lawn. It held that certain air of mockery that only comes about after you've lost a particularly difficult fight to the underdog. The wheels were still spinning in my mind, and they seemed to be eyes glaring at my bumps and scratches. The handlebars curved into a menacing grin, one that told me, Hah! I win! I began to choke on fear, terrified to grow closer to my house because of that thing on the lawn.
It was then that I realized I couldn't be afraid of childish things anymore, like falling off a shiny new birthday present with big round wheels and frilly handlebars. I put my bike away that night, not by wheeling it beside me to the garage, but by giving it another spin up the street and back. Sometimes, you have to learn to get back on the bike, to fight when you seem weak, and most importantly, to learn from your mistakes. I did not attempt another sharp turn like earlier, which resulted in devastating gashes to my skin. Instead, I played it safe and discovered something about myself: I, too, could face my fears, and succeed.
