It’s a Thursday night in February. Remnants of crusty snow dot the lawn, the ground is frozen, and tomorrow is garbage day. I’m wearing socks, no coat, and trying to pull the hefty gray garbage can down the driveway to the curb. It’s a simple thing; I’ve done it many times before. It shouldn’t trouble me, but my steps land heavy. The garbage can seems extra cumbersome. I want to shove it on its side and kick it hard. This was a task Kevin always did. Every Thursday he’d walk through the house, going from room to room, collecting the trash into one giant plastic bag. Now I do it. But it’s not the chore that aggravates me; its why I’m doing it that makes me want to pummel the garbage can. It’s watching cancer stealthily, and with no remorse, inflict fear and mayhem. It’s asking questions to which I can’t find answers.
I forcefully position the garbage can on the pavement, walk back through the garage, past the bicycles leaning against the wall, when a pocket-sized memory unexpectedly fills my mind. A remembrance of a warm day when taking a long deep breath meant a peaceful well-being, not a method I now use to soothe fretful thoughts.
It was a summer bike ride with my 10-year-old son.
The cape was light green, almost fluorescent, fashioned from his t-shirt he tied around his neck. It swirled furiously behind him as the pavement carried his bike downhill through apple-pie neighborhoods and under trees with branches so low and long that the leaves slapped his face. I followed behind, trying to keep up. We stopped to rest on a corner, straddling our bikes and watching the sprinklers tap long arcs of water across the lawn of the small, community cemetery. The militant heat from the July day faded only slightly as the light softened with the approaching sunset. I could tell by his eyes that the thought of getting wet was captivating.
“You dare me?” he said.
“It’s gonna be cold,” I replied.
“Nah, it’ll be fun.”
He slowly peddled his bike alongside the decorative poles of the wrought iron fence and stopped at the cemetery entrance. No cars, no visitors. Empty. Perfect. He glanced back at the street and saw no one near. With new zeal he darted down the cemetery path, veered onto the grass and maneuvered his bike around the headstones. As he approached the shooting spray, a large tree trunk caught the force of a sprinkler and ricocheted water on his surprised face. He pumped his peddles harder and dashed head on into the shower. Water dripped from the spokes, the handle bars, his arms and hair. He swung around and made a return visit laughing and turning his head as the brunt of the water hit his bare back. He shivered and slowly made his way off the lawn. He straightened the cape, raked his fingers through his now spiky hair, and turned his bike towards home.
“Race ya,” he yelled.
We left the cemetery and I trailed behind. I saw him push his legs faster and faster on the peddles until he was sure his cape was flying and he probably wished he could as well. He tilted his chin up to the sky and the hot wind dried his hair. Then he settled down lower in his seat and gripped the handlebars tighter. The sun dissolved behind the mountain and the alpenglow lit the edge of the sky on fire. We slowed our speed then finally let our muscles rest as we coasted close to home. He steered into the driveway first and pounced off the seat. I followed a few seconds behind. “Beat ya,” he said with a grin as I pulled in beside him. We laughed and teased each other about who was actually the fastest. We walked our bikes contentedly into the garage, a little out of breath, and tapped the kickstands into place. For a moment we stood beside each other in silence and breathed in summer.
The memory skittered around the garage then settled in my mind. That inconsequential July day suddenly shifted to a treasure. A golden ticket that amidst my heartache brought me a sliver of delight. A reminder that life is neither always gloomy nor always sparkling, but a mixture of up and down storylines that foster resiliency and clarify what matters and what doesn’t.
