Danger and Trouble

I have a yellow bicycle and we will ride it together. It is not a tandem bicycle but I will solve that problem. I will build a seat, a separate seat, for you. I will take my hammer and saw and nails and a cushion and make a seat for you, just behind mind, that you can sit on as we ride. And I will do all the pedaling.

The seat will be as sturdy as I can make it. But I, remember, am not a woodworker (not by trade, not even really by hobby), and so the seat will most likely break. It is hard to tell when this will happen. It is safe to assume, though, I think, that it will happen while we are moving, especially if I hit a bump or a branch. The nails will fall out and you, my darling, will tumble. Possibly on the wheel, possibly missing the wheel entirely. But it is a near certainty that you will tumble truly.

I do not know how fast I will be going. I might be going down a hill, but I might be going up that hill. I might be swerving. I might be showing off, showing you just how fast I can really go. And you will be so impressed, yes, the moment before it happens you will be so impressed with me. And we will be smiling.

You will fall, and most likely hit your head. I will skid to a halt and scream your name. I will drop the bicycle to the ground like they do in the pictures and run to your side.

Are you wearing a helmet? I don't know. Is there blood? Probably. Will you be alive? Hard to say.

If you are alive, I will make sure nothing is broken (or too broken, that is). I will check for signs of brain damage and trauma and what have you, and hopefully I will not make anything worse. I will ask nearby if doctors are present. By now people will have stopped, gathered, seen what all the fuss is about. Hopefully none of them stay too long, because that means you are OK.

If you are dead, I will howl. I will howl at the sun and moon and stars and clouds and heavens and hells and earth. I will curse everyone and thing I have ever seen or not seen or will never see. I will be distraught. I will suck in on myself like a black hole, only blacker. I will spend the rest of myself asking why I didn't buy you a bicycle, rent, borrow, why we didn't just walk, why I had, just had to build you a seat. And why you let me. Why you went along with it all. Why we couldn't see how dangerous we were really being. The trouble we'd get ourselves into.

But you never see. You have good ideas, and bad ideas, and sometimes both at once. But you have fun, try to anyway, and hopefully it all works out.

We could bike around the lake, out to our old school. We could bike into town for ice cream. We could bike to that abandoned playground and play like children. We could, if we tried, stay exactly how we are forever.