A Favorite Memory of My Grandmother

A FAVORITE MEMORY OF MY GRANDMOTHER.

It’s summertime. The sun shines. I am 6 years old,
sitting on the hard triangular seat of my tricycle;
my bare toes napping against square pedals. 
I sit in grandma’s asphalt driveway;
taste the toxins of scorching bitumen.

Grandma comes outside,
wearing yellow, green fleur handkerchief;
it’s tied around her bobbed beige hair.
She walks the length of gray-stoned patio
offers me a tall glass of pink lemonade;
asks me, “When are you going to ride a big-kid bike?”

Nervous by idea of change, I dodge her question
again, she calls my name.
Placing her hand on top of mine
She fathoms my fear, my uncertainty—
I don’t say a word, grandma understands.

Strolling gray-cement side-walk,
grandma rounds her oval neighborhood,
and as she walks, asks me to ride brother’s big-kid bike.
She tells me she won’t let go. That she’ll walk by my side,
one hand clutching handlebar in case
my fragile body falls, or bike tips.
I trust her.
She gives me no reason not to.