The Red Bike

Whenever I take my favorite morning walk, I pass an abandoned red bicycle that’s leaning against an old pump. Some authority has tagged it with a warning that it will soon be removed, but so far the bike hasn’t been claimed or disturbed. Grasses and weeds grow tall through its wheels, attesting to its immobility, and yet it still speaks of motion to me. It’s red, after all: the exciting color of birthday presents and scraped knees. It looks ready to go, temporarily parked, a snapshot of fleeting movement. It is promise on the brink.

Every day, that bike becomes more mine. It exists for me to see. It invites me to fly.

I have finished the third draft of my new novel, the one I began in January. It’s real now, imperfect but real, and I’m secretly happy.