Pink Frame

I passed a pink bicycle yesterday,

frame rusted, one tire completely flat,

weeds grown around the spokes like

they'd been deciding to stay.

And suddenly I was back

at seven years old, my father's hand

on the seat, the moment he let go—

not when I was ready,

but when his arm got sore,

when he decided I'd practiced enough.

The sidewalk rushed up.

My knee wouldn't stop bleeding.

He said "You're okay," which meant

I wasn't, which meant betrayal

came from the one person

I'd trusted most.

I never rode that bike again.

Now I wonder who left the pink one

abandoned in that driveway,

who learned about the space

between holding and falling,

about how love can turn

into something that hurts,

about hands that let go

and don't come back.