A Bicycle

Even though I do not live in a particularly biker-friendly town, I often wish I owned one.



Since moving into my apartment a year and a half ago, a charming old bicycle has leaned against the side of the building where I climb the stairs to our door. At first I looked at it longingly, but then I started to notice dust and cobwebs settle and coat the surfaces. Apparently it didn't do much pedaling.

Recently, my roommate and I were walking up our stairs together and she mentioned, "Oh, that's my bike."

"Your bike?!"

With a giggle she said, "Yeah, but I can't use it. I put a lock on it and forgot the combination."



Today I was walking home with my chin tucked down into my scarf and my sleeves pulled down into my fisted hands and noticing how everything around me matched. The tan bricks stacked into buildings, the stringy parched grass, the cracking dirt, and the few remaining fall leaves, now as crisp as Coffee Crunch Bars (which are amazing, by the way).

And then there was the bike. Muted to the hue of old red velvet by its collection of dirt, but still providing a pleasant contrast to its landscape, it welcomed me home.

I'm grateful for some constants in life, even if right now one of them is a bicycle whose immobile back wheel keeps it stationed at the foot of my staircase. At least it's pretty to look at. At least it's got some color.