Via: Cry It Out
Posted January 12th, 2010
For Christmas, Emmeline received a scooter and has apparently made a secret pledge to stop using her feet, preferring the ease and laziness of wheeled transport. One time she hopped out of bed, landing on the thin pink scooter platform, and somehow made her way to the kitchen without touching the floor at all. If I tried that, I’d probably need a new hip.
In the afternoon, she will sometimes snap awake from a nap, grab her helmet and head to the door, despite the appearance of scattered stars.
“There’s still time,” she tells me, “But we have to hurry. Before it gets dark.”
I see her amble down the front stairs, her red helmet bobbing atop her head and her eyes working across the gloaming, contemplating the sky, watching as fog curls over the western hills and the vault above her turns the color of a bruise.
“There’s still time,” she whispers, almost to herself, “There’s still time.”
She hits the sidewalk determined, gripping the handlebars and scoots maybe five feet before the front wheels buckle against a raised sidewalk crack and she goes flying.
“I’m OK, I’m OK,” she tells me, brushing herself off, “But I think it’s too dark.”
“You didn’t see the crack?”
“I think it’s too dark.”
She reaches up and grabs my hand, and because we’re already outside, we take a slow walk around the block, watching as the sky dissolves into purple with slashes of crimson and ocher on the horizon. There’s a twinkle hiding behind the fog and she squints. She takes a few steps, her head turned upward. She squeezes my hand.
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