Coda

As it turns out, it doesn’t really hurt to die.

This is a feast that can’t possibly satisfy me. The crisp attar of pine and brilliant, ethereal sunbeams mesmerize me, not unlike a swirl of icy flakes on a wintry day.

I snag my fingertip on a spoke, jagged and twisted, a live wire that threatens to ignite me to my marrow.

When I see them, it’s magic. The brush of his lips on mine, her tiny fingers curled around my pinkie—adoration wrapped in a velvety promise of forever.

But it’s not enough, and the tap-tap-tap warns me, the unstoppable, crimson stream, a ticking clock slowing to a st—

***

I cradle the parcel close like a beloved infant. A monarch in its bright orange and black-tipped wing glory, flutters and dives around me, and I dodge a fallen limb, leaves crackling under my scarred wedge heel.

If she's not there, I’ll snap a photo and call later, just in case this delivery goes awry, too. How does someone do this? Yes, our last names match, but mix up street names? Wren Circle and Wren Drive? How?

The downpour begins. I throw up the umbrella and pick up the pace. Gotta get back, chop the onions, celery, carrots, then drain the pintos, season and bake the chips. Maybe he’ll want a cold one first, or a toddy. Then maybe a quick rinse, a softer pair of sweats and my new cashmere socks.

The brick-paved walk narrows to concrete, cracked like a toothless smile, then another and one last step to the porch. No movement at the ivory blinds confirms it, so I bend a creaky, purplish-red knee and nestle Carrie’s package against the door.

I make my way down and admire an emerald carpet, dotted in leaves of amber and ruby. A toga-clad gnome waves goodbye, and I’m grateful for the squeezed-out gunmetal clouds and the lighter air.

A few strides later, the squeak, sharp and melodic, announces the diminutive, lightning-fast cycler in training. But her mother is faster, hands low on her back.

“Let go Mama, I got it!” She peels away. Her smile outshines the gleam of the trike, while her mother's hands flutter, half exhilaration, half terror.

When the little one strikes the boulder and bumps over the curb, I spring into action, I chuck my umbrella to give chase.

“Can you get her?” Her dulcet voice ticks up to a full-blown shriek. “Please, ma’am.”

I break into a gallop, and ignore the pop in my left knee. When I’m close enough, I catch a whiff of her hair, fresh and citrusy. She grips the handbars and rolls into the intersection. I stretch my arm to wrap a hand around scorching breeze.

I feel her breath on my neck. “Grab her! Please!!”

I reach again, wrist straining, and brush the flag with my fingertip. Just before the wheel lands on the pavement, I yank her from the seat.

“Owww!” Her eyes, deep hazel and wide with unshed tears, make their silent plea.

“You’re safe, little one.” I squeeze her into my chest and feel the mix of relief and panic in each shiver. “Here, let’s get out of the way.”

I hug her closer, tight enough to infuse orbs of comfort through her. When her mother taps my arm, my shoulders sag against an ear-piercing scream.

Mirror images, they cling to each other, the apples of their cheeks streaked with fat tears, noses scrunched in joy and gratitude. At that moment, I see Lucy, scruffy bear dangling from her dirt-caked fingers, chubby arms shaking as she stood in the clearing when she walked away from us on the trip to the mountains in ‘95.

“Stay here on this bench.” I pecked her forehead, after he wrangled her from a bush of flowers she’d broken our last plastic spoon into the deep ebony soil.

“Just wanna take home the pretty flowers, Mama.” I grinned at the way her lips rounded over those vowels, a perpetual pucker that I pressed against my own when we were closer. She hates those photos of herself at that age, but I still pinch her face every time she complains.

I never lost sight of her, when she’d wandered away while we packed up sleeping bags and lanterns, distracted by an untended garden of towering tangerine and violet blooms near a stump.

Michael grabbed her before she screamed, and I beamed when she melded into his strong grip, a leaflet stuck in a pigtail.

Relief floods us both, and I leave them to their reunion against the incandescent cerulean sky. I reach for the closest handle, my back to the road.

I lift the tricycle by its slick, overheated seat when the whoosh sends me flying.

Frantic honks threaten to split my temple, Another yelp, and the air settles into something coppery, so heavy as if the entire universe resides on my chest.

My limbs are splintered and useless, like the metal pieces strewn around me. Blood spews like sewage from a gash on my upper thigh. My chest beats a wild, soul-deep ache.

Their saucer-wide cocoa gazes are stunning. “You look like my granny. She’s the best. You are too!” Her crimson lips are smaller than Lucy’s, but no less adorable.

“Marie!” The young woman’s touch cools the burning coal that is the crown of my head. “You saved her. Please, how can I help?”

I open my mouth, but I can’t speak as she dials, a quivering thumb pressed to my wrist. I track Marie’s tears, the fear in her mother’s eyes, the hopelessly misshapen wheel of her tricycle, but it’s OK.

She can have Lucy’s old trike. It’s caked in a layer of rust, buried in the back room of the garage. Because every kid deserves wheels, the gift of freedom, an endless race between sun and byway.

I blink again. Lucy and Michael appear, resplendent with beatific grins, wrapped up in each other. When the frame’s edges shrink, just out of reach, I lift my hand to grasp it once more.