Falling
by John Azrak
When I ask her if she wants something to drink
she says she wants a still point in a turning world.
“All I have is light beer,” I say, mumbling something
about staying in shape. She laughs. I feel a little ache
under my heart. She eyes the pair of bruised hybrid
bikes (one my daughter’s) hanging on the wall
outside my bedroom. “We can go for a ride,” I say,
not sure if it’s the ache talking; the spokes of a fat
wheel are a blur on the axle in my mind’s eye.
She says she’s had worse proposals but she hadn’t
ridden a bike since she was a kid. “That’s not a problem,
your muscle memory will take over,” I say. “You won’t fall.”
She leans forward, her birdlike shoulders curved as if over
a racer’s handlebar. There’s a special providence
in the fall of a sparrow, I’m thinking.
She clasps her knees, lifts her head, the soft curve
of her dimpled chin, her brown eyes opening
into a wide smile it is all I can do to keep my heart still.
I stand, extend my hand, curl my toes to grip the floor.
“It will be just like riding a bike then,” she says.
