a memoir i wrote in school that i thought was pretty good and worth putting up. a little girl (me) rides her bike and has some troubles.
I grip the handlebars tighter as the sun beats down on the hot pavement. A cool spring breeze blows against my face as I see a squirrel scamper up a tree. My dad just mowed the lawn, so the scent of fresh cut grass is in the air. I'm very comfortable with my t-shirt, jeans, and sandals on.
I look down the road to my destination, the driveway. My seven year old fingers hold onto the handles tighter as I start to pedal my pink bicycle. My hair and the ribbons hanging off the handles start to blow in the light breeze as it picks up.
The bike begins to go faster and faster down the little hill, and there's a growing knot in my stomach. A smile spreads across my face, like a person slowly processing good news. I squeeze the handles tighter and my toes curl in my sandals.
I'm almost there, but first I have to go around a turn. I jerk the handlebars quickly to the right, and everything goes downhill from there. The knot in my stomach squeezes tighter than ever. The bike flies out from underneath me, and I see the gravel spinning towards my face. Before I have enough time to scream, I'm on the ground, and there is a pain in my knee and my hands are stinging. The bike is lying sideways on the pavement, the wheels still spinning.
I bite down hard on my lip, determined not to cry. But as soon as I see the cut on my knee, I let out a shriek. My mom comes running out and helps me to my feet. Hot tears spilling down my cheeks, I blubber out an explanation as to what happened. My neighbor wheels my bike back over to the garage as I dramatically limp inside the house.
My stomach hurts, and my head is spinning. Tears cloud my vision, so on top of everything else I'm tripping over my own feet as I walk. I manage to drag my feet up the steps to the door and slump down into a kitchen chair.
My mom very helpfully takes me to the bathroom to clean my cut and wash my hands, which are still stinging from the crash. Sniffling, I follow her around and complain about my injuries.
She apparently has grown tired of my complaining, because my mom then takes some ice cream out of the freezer and scoops some into a bowl for me. Of course, once my mouth is filled with the sweet chocolate ice cream, I forget all about the horrendous crash.
I sit quietly in my chair for a while, admiring the shiny Band-Aid on my knee. After I finish my ice cream and put the bowl in the sink, I lie down on the big brown couch in my living room and think about the crash.