a wobbling mass of uncertainty perched haphazardly on a bike. daddy holds me upright, his strong hands refuse to let me fall. pedalling, pedalling, faster and faster a weight releases at last, I'm flying.
six years old.
first day of first grade I clutch onto my mom's hand so many children, both familiar and stranger letters, numbers, a line on the wall a smiling teacher. I let go of her hand sit in a green desk, grab a crayon one last glance out the door but she is gone.
ten years old.
suspended in the cool water skis strapped awkwardly on my numb feet a lifejacket rises tight around my neck my mom behind me, holds me right side up in a firm embrace suddenly, a massive force pulls me up out of her comfortable arms through the deafening spray of the water my mother cheers. I'm gliding, and I've never felt so free.
sixteen years old.
my hands caress the steering wheel dad's in the passenger seat cautious, careful, I proceed the open road ahead of us we pick up speed, but then a deer. his hand grabs my shoulder my foot slams on the brakes. I'll pay more attention when I'm driving alone. we take a breath. we're safe.
eighteen years old.
I scan the crowd as I sit in my crisp blue robe. my strange square hat. no more unfamiliar faces. just layers and layers of memories blended on top of each other. my name is announced I stand up, cross the stage, again, a mass of uncertainty. again, awkward in my high heeled shoes my dad holds my mom's shoulder my mom clutches his hand.
once more, I'm forced to let go in order to move forward. a diploma replaces my mother's hand crushing realization replaces my father's security again, I'm flying but things will never be the same.