"Grab your things I've come to take you home"

Dad,
Remember my green and white bike with the training wheels? You took those wheels off, raised the seat of that bike and decided it was time for me to learn. I think I must've protested. I was a hesitant kid, wasn't I? But we must've agreed at some point that it was, in fact time, for me to shed those worn out white plastic wheels that steadied my beloved little bike.

We walked up the driveway and into the street in front of our house. I mounted the bike with your firm grip on the back of my seat. You told me to pedal and ran with me down the street in front of our house. Your grip kept me from wobbling wildly for the first couple of runs. Patience.  You have more patience than anyone I know.  You reassured me you were still behind me, running to keep up while I pedalled on until suddenly, through my hesitance, you released your hold on my seat and called after me,

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

And I did, I pedalled valiantly until I abruptly collided with Mr. Ed's mailbox. Or was it ours? Some details escape me. I don't remember if I cried. Probably. I'm smiling at the memory. You probably laughed a little, I'm sure it was a pretty hysterical sight. You laugh inappropriately sometimes, like when you're nervous. Miranda does too and now we three share the habit.

I was a tangled wreck underneath the mailbox. You picked me up to my feet, reassured me that that was probably the last time I'd fall if I remembered to brake. I guess it was a lot to remember to steer, brake, and pedal all at once.

I can't recall if we lowered the seat to make me feel more at ease? I feel like you always seemed to raise my seat a little higher than I was comfortable with. Assuring me that the height was fine, where it needed to be. I remember whining that it was just a little too elevated for my comfort. I liked my feet flat on the ground and you explained the the proper riding stance was to be on your tip toes.

Is that a metaphor? Always raising the bar? Expectations? Urging me to stand on my toes, getting me away from my comfort zone?

Your hands that push to pedal on my own, the one on the back of my seat that steadies, and same that reach to pull me to my feet and into your arms.

Where would I be without you?

I love you, Bud.

No Need

I’m used to this.  I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of beggars standing in the midst of the exit for Freedom Parkway.  On my way home, while I’m forced to sit at the light and be begged by pitiful stares for whatever it is they need.   In just a few short months I’ve become proficient at averting my eyes.  Ignoring the trite signs that read “Homeless VET”, “Just Need Food” or some sort of derivative that clearly states,

“I need _____ from you, please”.

 Sometimes a request is offered; Perhaps a promise to work, most times not. One doesn't really have time to give a spiel at a red-light that properly conveys the series of events that lead to their current situation. These people are only armed with signs and open hands. I used to dig around for change or hand out Delta branded peanut pouches that I always seem to have stuffed in my pockets.  

Eventually, I allowed myself to grow cold and almost disdainful, not to be confused or mistaken for apathy.  I'm not apathetic. I'm... curiously skeptical. How deep is your need? How do I know you’re not lying?  Besides, once I give you just ask for more. These experiences and assumptions of their laziness and/or addiction I hope will somehow excuses my aversion and assuage my guilt. 

How much can I give? Every ride from work am I expected to give? And how can I choose?  

The guilt mounts as all the while I'm willing the light to change quickly so that the inner battle that wages in me will cease.

There are too many of you… don’t you know that I can’t give to all of you and how can you expect me to choose?  Ah, good, the light’s changed.  Out of sight out of mind- relief until tomorrow night.

However, as familiar the dance of my regretful if not disdainful neglect and subsequent mental battle with beggars has become, I was not prepared for my experience tonight. 

I see a wheelchair backlit by the headlights of the opposite direction traffic.  I was hesitant to continue my gaze, but as usual, my curiosity overtook my need for preservation. I followed the wheels up and realized that the owner was legless. The lighting is preventing me from discerning anything but the shadow of an outstretched cup.  I squint. My heart is betraying me.  I start to consider my wallet and the fact that , oddly enough, I’m carrying cash.  Before I’m able to fully make a decision to give the light turns and I’m regretful that I’m forced to begin moving forward.  As I draw closer my headlights illuminate the owner.  She’s smiling wildly,  her white teeth are glowing in the night. I assess the clarity of her skin and the attractiveness of her face, the expensive braiding of her hair.  She’s bundled up and I’m disgusted to see a North Face logo proudly displayed on her jacket.  I follow her jacket sleeve down to the arm and the gloved hand that’s extending the large McDonald’s cup. She’s shaking it, expectantly, all the while wearing that disturbing smile and making unsettling eye contact.  Suddenly I’m glaring. Angry.  Incensed that she has the audacity to look neither uncomfortable nor upset.  No torn clothes, no dirt, not even a sign with a sad statement, a sentiment, an excuse. Just the sheer fact that she’s lost her legs enough of a reason to sit at my exit and demand my money.   She has no need.  She just has no legs.