The Summer I Learned to Ride a Bike

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Rubber melted on pavement,

like dropped ice cream cones.

Tongues out to catch the sweat

that slid down our foreheads.

She told me to ride around the house

one more time.

My little pink bike—

a salmon streak of lightning.

I took off on unsteady footing,

knees stippled and bruised,

gravel digging deeper with every fall.

But she told me to try again—

and I did.

 

Mid-July. The drumbeat of feet,

the two-toned whistle

of orange soldiers

marching the solstice.

We waved flags, begged for pennies

from strangers to buy

knick-knacks from stalls.

She said she knew a swear word,

whispered it in my ear.

We said it together—

a secret phrase

only we could hear.

 

We slept side by side

at least two nights a week,

when the percussion of my house

grew too loud to bear.

We made shampoo potions,

rose-tinted wishes

left for garden fairies.

Wands in hand, we cast spells

on the girls in class

who mocked her hair,

or my body.

We laughed because our dolls

had no underwear.

I told her she was magic—

she told me I should go to sleep.

 

Then, years later, she told me

that like a tree, her roots

had grown too far,

far farther than me.

That like two boats at sea,

we’d drifted apart

to different lands.

That now we were too old

to hold hands.

 

And I was left

like a bottle in the sand,

my message forgotten

as her roots expanded.

 

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By Savannah Smyth

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Savannah is a third year English Literature and creative writing student with The Open University. Her work explores darker themes of trauma, predation and grief as well as lighter themes such as childhood, longing and romance.

 

Instagram: @cherry.knotz