I suppose there was no way to learn it, other than going through it. But I can still feel the slip of innocence, into the wealth of love. 

My banana seat bike wasn’t just a vehicle for movement, but my best friend. Never was anything so certain. If I left it in the ditch on Van Dyke Road, it waited for me. If I needed to flee, it whistled like a get-a-way car. It not only welcomed, but carried my bedtime friends in its wicker basket. It was always there, cheerful in color, a banana seated smile. It didn’t simply agree that what I dreamed was possible, it said, “I’ll take you there.” And there were no conditions. Snow. Rain. Field or gravel, it went. It held me. So you can imagine my surprise the moment it happened. I heard a clank and my lead pedal dropped swiftly to the bottom. In panic, I circled the no longer connected pedals with cartoon speed, then dropped my feet to the road just before I fell over. I stood stunned. I had heard of this, the chain coming off. I put down the kick stand and bent over to look. It was if the chain was crying, all drooped to the ground. I touched it. Seeing my hand covered in slippery black tears, my initial disappointment turned to empathy. I would help my friend. Wasn’t it my turn, after all?

I limped it off the road into the nearest and safest spot, Kinkead Cemetery. I don’t know how long I was there. Time has a way of disappearing in such a place. With my left hand I guided the pedal. With my right I moved the chain. It clunked and I coddled, until finally, it was whole again. I was whole again. 

This was friendship, I thought. This taking turns. Carrying each other. Enjoying the ride. Together.