Yesterday I rode my bike

Yesterday I pedaled a morning smile over fat tires toward the cafe.

A dog came out of nowhere and chased me as if I had threatened him.
I bent over the handlebars like I was ten and won that race—the dog gone at last.

I was going so fast I nearly ran over some kids crossing the street who didn’t see me coming.
I rang my apparently quiet bell at them to no avail.

I swerved successfully for them but disastrously for me, my turned wheel meeting a modest pothole sideways. My bike and I careened and tumbled to the pavement in some dance I can’t quite imagine, though I was there for every second.

The kids just yelled “Hey!” over and over, like I’d done something on purpose.

My bike’s front wheel wobbled then, and I wasn’t sure why. The kids were yelling, older folks staring from under wrinkled brows like those metal awnings people put over their windows. I looked behind me and at least the dog was still nowhere to be found.

So I limped my bike to the cafe and leaned it against a post by an outside table.
I looked down at my pants and brushed off some dirt and leaves I hadn’t noticed from the crash dance.

Looking around, I didn’t see my friend.

Inside, I ordered a cappuccino. The barista set the cup down with a loud bonk and was already turned away before I could thank him. One sip told me it was more like a latte—thin foam, the bitterness missing. I sighed and let it be. The seat outside was a little dirty, but so was I, so I sat anyway.

Still no friend.
I checked my calendar, even though I knew the day.
The empty chair felt louder than the crash.

I left the drink on the table, my bike against the pole, and briskly walked with fisted hands down the sidewalk until I reached the park.

I slumped on a bench and cried a little.

Then I took you from my bag.
I used a pen to tell you all these things.
I reread what I wrote and laughed a little.
I really was glad to have outrun that dog.

I noticed the birds singing and wondered if your pages could hear them.

I took you back to retrieve my bike and startled the barista, who had just finished fixing the wheel.
“I had a minute,” he said. “It just needed straightened and tightened.”
I thanked him, tested the wheel, thanked him again.
He smiled and waved as he backed into the cafe.

I saw those kids on my way home and tried not to look at them.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” a girl in black pigtails said.
I’d already passed too far to reply, so I dinged my bell twice at her.

A bit further on, I heard that dog barking again. Before I could pedal hard, I saw an older couple holding him on a leash. The woman told him matter-of-factly it wasn’t nice to shout at people. The man smiled and waved as I passed.

Now I’m standing in the kitchen at home, writing this very note.
I’m always so grateful to have you, journal.

Version included in the gifted journal

Yesterday I pedaled a morning smile over fat tires.
A dog barked and chased me. I pedaled hard and fast.
Kids laughed and yelled “Hey!” and I wondered what I did wrong.
I crashed my bike and didn’t know how to fix it.
My cappuccino had no frothy tasty foam.
My friend never showed up and I wondered what I did wrong.

I wrote this all down at the park.
You held it for me, with me.
And I felt better.

The barista fixed my bike and we smiled at each other over tea.
The kids said they were glad the crash didn’t hurt me.
A smiling couple were walking the dog on a leash.
My friend called to say they love me.

I wrote that all down when I got home.
You held it for me, with me.
And I felt better.