By Ira Hawthorne
It wasn’t my bicycle, but barreling down the hill with freedom and wind tossing my hair, I howled into the empty street. Gulping the August-thick air, I soared through suburbia. Brightly colored ribbons blossomed from the handlebars, reading like celebration banners: ‘I am healthy. There is no cancer in this body.’
I looked down at my legs. Varicose veins peeked from beneath my middle-aged skin. A jigsawed scar reminded me that my 10-year-old self was here too—when the deepest pain I’d known was that of a metal bike pedal carving its initials in my shin.
Pain is inevitable.
Freedom, too.
Really lovely piece!
Wow! Thank you so much. I just peeked some of your work on your website— also really lovely!
An uplifting tale of recovery and newfound freedom … thanks. I can relate, since I, too, am a two-time cancer survivor–ages 13 and 19, and I just turned 41. Onward always.
Keep on going. You’re a winner.
Pain and freedom! Constants in life. Loved this
The agony and ecstasy of life captured in 101 words. Lovely writing.
Thoughtful and well written.