It was I who ran straight into a tree, the first time riding a bike without training wheels. Dad watched me from the driveway, disappointed with worry. He was always teaching me things. I was urged to learn quickly, and faced with disappointment when I missed the deadline. Failure.
Although I practiced repeatedly, I always seemed to crash.
“Good try Linds, give it another go!” my father would chime from the driveway’s gravelly sidelines.
Me, filled with personal disappointment, head down, tears in the corners of my child eyes.
As my frustration ebbed and flowed, each day passed, training wheels still peering at me from the garage door. Those wheels tormented me from afar.
Although dad felt impatient he was supportive. The dad that always wants his daughter to do well. Eventually I mastered my two-wheeler, but by then, papa was onto other things. Organization, a skill to end all skills.
It was a metaphor for our relationship, riding a bike. As he firmly directed me above, towards the stars, I failed to reach so high.
Time passes. My fingers finally skim the bright night sky, and he is nowhere to be found.
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