Bike Ride

I don’t remember if I wrapped my hands around my father when he let me ride on the back of his yellow Schwinn or if he gave either of my brothers a turn or what the air smelled like, or if his faded plaid summer shirt flapped in the wind, but I do remember he placed a pillow on the luggage seat rack and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I do remember watching the beach rental disappear behind me as he pedaled away. I remember wondering if he saw the potholes in the dirt road. I remember fallen pine needles on patio umbrellas and in the water of bird baths. The soft squeak of the bike brakes, the movement of the chain, his long legs going in circles, his muffled voice in front of me commenting on a house’s roof or the brickwork of someone’s patio. I remember trees over our heads whose branches joined each other across the road and the dim evening sky. I remember not caring if we ever got back to the house because my dad never rode bikes, and I was never alone with him like this, and I never talked the whole time because I liked the sound of him, of summer crickets, of the tires over pebbles and sand. The ground that day was so far away when I looked down, no belt or strap to hold me in place, but never, never did I think of falling.