By Rosie Garland & Meg Pokrass
Father lets go of the saddle; the bicycle tilts and she tilts with it. With odd slowness she hurtles over the handlebars into nothing. Grazes gravel, pinned under the skeleton of the frame. She’s back on her feet before Father can catch up, his face a squeezed mass of fear. She smiles, pretends it doesn’t hurt. Can usually read his expression, but somewhere she’s made a mistake. Tears line his nose. She wonders if she should have whimpered, waited for him to rescue her. Her hair, no longer long the way he loves it, cut too short to buckle into curls.
Love the image and the glimpse of growing up and away. “Buckle” is a great word choice!
Love ‘squeezed mass of fear’.
Lovely story. Too familiar. Good work.