Chapter 14 - Ethan Chooses No Bike
Spring came.
Children on bicycles appeared everywhere.
Ethan watched.
Never asked.
I did not ask either.
Then one Saturday he pointed to a neighbor girl.
“Her bike has four wheels.”
“Two wheels and two training wheels.”
“Four.”
“Fair.”
“Can mine have four?”
I crouched.
“If you want a bike.”
He thought.
“Not Grandpa blue.”
“No.”
“Green?”
“No.”
He considered.
“Orange.”
“Orange.”
We went to a bicycle shop.
No surprise gift.
No birthday audience.
He chose a tiny orange bicycle.
Training wheels.
Helmet.
Knee pads because he wanted “robot legs.”
The salesperson asked if he wanted to test ride.
Ethan looked at me.
“No.”
I said:
“Okay.”
The salesperson smiled.
“We can roll it to the car.”
Ethan stared.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Something changed in his face.
Control.
At home, bicycle stayed in garage three days.
Fourth day:
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we roll it?”
We rolled.
No riding.
Fifth:
He sat on seat.
No moving.
Sixth:
One pedal.
Then stopped.
“Done.”
“Okay.”
Laura watched from porch.
Later she whispered:
“You know every part of you wanted to say one more try.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
That was my practice.
Not his.
My father’s system measured how long a child could endure.
Mine would measure whether I could respect stop.
By summer, Ethan rode the driveway.
Still training wheels.
May you like
Still orange.
Still fine.
