when i was about ten years old (probably a little younger than that even,) i absolutely loathed riding my bike. i take that back. i just utterly disliked going any further than up and down the street in front of our house. it required a lot more stamina than my little, plump body could take. my sisters could cruise so effortlessly for miles on loose gravel roads or endless pavement. my mom and step dad loved taking us on family bike rides. we’d ride past farms with tall, uncut grass, and cattails lining the sides of the ditches. i trudged behind my sisters, trying to catch my breath, while at the same time trying to see through blurred eyes because i couldn’t stop crying from exhaustion and stubbornness. my mom stayed close to me, though- imitating the sounds the cows would make in the fields we passed, in attempts to make us all smile. she’d let the sound rumble in the back of her throat and then she would laugh at herself and keep peddling on. looking back, i wish i would have appreciated her laughter a little more- true and genuine, but instead, i was usually a blubbering mess until the very second we got home.
however, i was quite the little dare devil as soon as i was in my comfort zone on the old black top that ran in front of our house. i’d speed up and down it- sometimes with my feet on my handle bars. sometimes using no hands at all. you name it and my sisters and i probably tried it. the thing is… we crashed. a lot. coming home crying with scraped knees and elbows was an occurrence that more times than i can count. once after a bad crash, my sister, morgan, ran up and down the street yelling for someone to call 911. it wasn't necessary, of course, and to this day we all laugh about it, but she didn't quite know the difference yet between a real emergency and the spilled blood that came with just being young. however, after every tumble and every fall- every scrape, sliver, burn, or gash, my mom sat me on a cabinet we had in the corner of our kitchen, and she patched me right up. every time. she has always been my true rescue. i still have the scars lining my knees and elbows from every fall, but she kissed them, willing them to heal with love. and they did.
scars came with the years that have passed since then, but they were a different kind. they were the kind that come with broken hearts and families that have been torn apart. the kind that appear when friendships fade before your eyes- when the answers to all of your questions cannot be found within the heart of someone else. they were the kind you cannot truly see until you really look into the depths of another. my mother has kissed every wound and has wiped away every tear that has ever fallen from my eyes and it is because of her that i have found true strength.. it is because of her that my heart reaches out with an openness to others that cannot be easily found in most people. she is my safe place to land and if i could thank her a million over and give her the entire world, i would. i would in an instant. and so, for the rest of my days, i owe my heart to the woman who has taken up so much room in my own.
