Shannon Phillips

We got this bike for Robin a year too early. He’s just now getting comfortable with it:

Watching him scoot around on the bike reminds me of a poem that hit me hard when I first read it last year: “To A Daughter Leaving Home,” by Linda Pastan.

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.