Day 9: The Scooter
This morning, they came back from a run to the grocery store with a scooter.
"It has two wheels!" M. says dancing around me. His old scooter had three - two in front and one below the brake in back. It was also bright, neon green, and made of plastic. Matt unfolds the handlebar from the platform and stands it up. It is black and made of durable metal. Instantly, I approve. Just that morning, I had been thinking M. needed both a stimulus and a reward after the upheaval of the week at home, the loss of being with friends and his teachers, i.e. the rug pulled out from under his six year old's world.
It's still early and cold, so I stand behind the storm door and watch him test it out up and down the street, Matt on his bicycle following close behind. In his shiny black helmet, he looks like a small bobble head doll atop this bigger scooter, but he finds his bearings and glides past me with a shy grin.
"Look how sharp it turns," he cries, his voice tinny and loud, echoing his father a second earlier. I shoot him a thumbs up. His cheeks are ruddy but the cold is no match for the thrill of speed.
In the afternoon, we set out for town. I walk while M. scooters ahead and waits, his left foot finding the ground and pushing off for traction.
Push-push-push, glide
Push-push-push, glide
before he rests the toe of his sneaker behind his other foot, like a dancer en pointe.
I call out to him but my words sound hollow. The admonitions, mild, cautioning, sound like lines from a different script, of a life that no longer exists, instead of the film on contagion that we are all living through right now.
"Stop."
"Wait at the corner."
Gone, the days of complaining about the detergent, of exchanging Everlane jeans, of throwing out leftovers. Before the shutdowns. Before Italy, South Korea, Hubei. Before the infections, hospitalizations, and deaths. Before there were notices on the playground to play at your own risk. Before the epicenter began shifting to New York.
And yet, the body has its owns needs and it feels good to walk down Main Street even in this kind of earflap-down cold, to feel your very aliveness and to witness this: the making of a speed demon. But then something catches the corner of your eye and you try not to be startled. But, it's just a pedestrian, the adult daughter who lives in the corner house on your street, the one who doesn't drive and who strides with purpose. Your eyes briefly meet. She nods and the corners of her eyes crease as she walks past.
M. is waiting up ahead and watching. You wave. You smile. When he sees you start walking again, he continues.
Push-push-push, glide
Push-push-push, glide
"It has two wheels!" M. says dancing around me. His old scooter had three - two in front and one below the brake in back. It was also bright, neon green, and made of plastic. Matt unfolds the handlebar from the platform and stands it up. It is black and made of durable metal. Instantly, I approve. Just that morning, I had been thinking M. needed both a stimulus and a reward after the upheaval of the week at home, the loss of being with friends and his teachers, i.e. the rug pulled out from under his six year old's world.
It's still early and cold, so I stand behind the storm door and watch him test it out up and down the street, Matt on his bicycle following close behind. In his shiny black helmet, he looks like a small bobble head doll atop this bigger scooter, but he finds his bearings and glides past me with a shy grin.
"Look how sharp it turns," he cries, his voice tinny and loud, echoing his father a second earlier. I shoot him a thumbs up. His cheeks are ruddy but the cold is no match for the thrill of speed.
In the afternoon, we set out for town. I walk while M. scooters ahead and waits, his left foot finding the ground and pushing off for traction.
Push-push-push, glide
Push-push-push, glide
before he rests the toe of his sneaker behind his other foot, like a dancer en pointe.
I call out to him but my words sound hollow. The admonitions, mild, cautioning, sound like lines from a different script, of a life that no longer exists, instead of the film on contagion that we are all living through right now.
"Stop."
"Wait at the corner."
Gone, the days of complaining about the detergent, of exchanging Everlane jeans, of throwing out leftovers. Before the shutdowns. Before Italy, South Korea, Hubei. Before the infections, hospitalizations, and deaths. Before there were notices on the playground to play at your own risk. Before the epicenter began shifting to New York.
And yet, the body has its owns needs and it feels good to walk down Main Street even in this kind of earflap-down cold, to feel your very aliveness and to witness this: the making of a speed demon. But then something catches the corner of your eye and you try not to be startled. But, it's just a pedestrian, the adult daughter who lives in the corner house on your street, the one who doesn't drive and who strides with purpose. Your eyes briefly meet. She nods and the corners of her eyes crease as she walks past.
M. is waiting up ahead and watching. You wave. You smile. When he sees you start walking again, he continues.
Push-push-push, glide
Push-push-push, glide
Comments
Post a Comment