The tall, dainty green grass that lived along the sidewalk danced in the foul wind that often began the season. The subtle laughter of children, and the death of summer was already amidst in the atmosphere. The soft honey-suckle aroma that always ruled the air was beginning to slowly fade as the colors of an old photograph would.

I had worn my dense helmet about a hundred times by now, yet I still failed each time I tried. Sparky was not perfect, but he was all I needed. He was a present from my grandparents on my fifth birthday, and it had been an infinity since then. He was luminous all over with a splash of dark blue, and pink around the rims. It had a white front tire, and a black back tire. A few strands from the pom-poms on the handlebars had already been torn off, and the bell was a little scratched up on the side, but it still managed to shine every time the sun caught a glimpse of it.

My dad had been repeatedly trying to teach me how to ride it, but I just couldn’t. If I ever felt his hand leave my back, I would stomp as hard as I could on the brakes as if it would somehow save my life; I could only imagine the worst.

It was an early Sunday morning, and the sun was just beginning to wake. The air was already hot and humid, and we had been outside for fifteen minutes. My dad’s sweat was starting to seep through his shirt, as he transformed into my human shield. He held me tight by the shoulder, and had his right hand on my back to keep me from falling off. I felt like his most precious trophy.

We were doing the usual ride around the neighborhood, or so I thought. He took a different turn on the way back home. I was a little scared as I was not familiar with this new route. My face went pale. I could only see to the middle of the street. There was a drop after that, and that is when I knew it was The Hill. It was where the older kids would ride. It made our car fly as we went over it on the way to the supermarket. I was pretty sure he was not going to let go of me, well at least, I was pretty sure until he did. And down the hill I went.
The gravel that infested the street was popping as my tires dangerously gained speed. It was terrifying. The moment froze, and for a split second I actually enjoyed the thrill. I saw what I had only dreamt to see, and I felt what I never thought I would be able to reach. 

My eyes closed, and my feet lifted from the pedals. My bike curved half way down. I felt the burn of my body sliding on the naked street below me, the skin of my knee and elbows being scraped off, and my face colliding with the ground. I laid there helpless, waiting for my dad to come.

“What happened to you?” he asked as if not knowing what he had done.

“Why did you let me go?” I said as I got up, and the tears building up in my eyes began to fall. I ran to the side of the sidewalk and sat down. He followed closely behind me.

“It was time, hon. I knew that you were ready.” he replied with his head towards the ground. I was picking at my fresh scabs, and skin bits from my hand. He put his arm around me.

I looked up at him, and he told me, “When you fall, get right back up, and try again.” I looked at my cuts, and then I looked at the hill. Then, I looked at my dad’s scars, then I looked at his jacket. “The American Compound of Afghanistan,” it read. I thought of him with the bombs and the missiles and the year that he spent away from my mom, my sister, and me, and I ran to the top of the hill again with my bike.

I put my feet on the pedals, my hands on the bars, and my fear behind me. And down the hill I went… To try again.