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by Dan Leach Mama waited on the porch— wooden spoon and metal frown— to watch us walk our bikes up the dampened driveway to the back of the garage. If pre-pubescent knees came equipped with tiny fiddles, ours would strike the saddest notes as we tip-toed through the doorway to meet her in the kitchen. And yet, after the worst of it, when the spoon returned to its drawer, and my parents to their bedroom, I could sense my brother smiling. Through the darkness of our room, in the bunk above my head, he sizzled with silent joy for our unrepentant sin. And I returned that smile. Breezes beyond our handlebars had justified every lick— how they fluttered through our t-shirts and whipped our summer hair. How they made us feel alive. If pre-pubescent hearts came equipped with tiny drums, ours would slap a ragged anthem as we fell asleep that night to memories of flying. Copyright 2015. All rights reserved. |