Old Bicycle

            Old bicycle brakes squeak as she slows for the stoplight. Sun in her eyes, no cars to contend with this early in the morning. Classical music flows into a solitary earbud, birdsong and barking fill her open ear. She reaches back for the chubby leg kicking from the child seat.

            But no, there’s no leg, no child seat.

            Her adult children are now as old as she was then.

            Laughing quietly at herself, she pushes off as the stoplight changes to green and tries to downshift.

            But no, there’s no shift happening. Old bicycle gears seem stuck in place.

            Resigned, she stands up on the pedals, pushing hard. It should get easier as she gets going, she thinks.

            But no, pedaling isn’t getting any easier. She’s biking up an incline. She sits back down on old bicycle seat, keeps pedaling, though slower. At least the seat’s easy. Easy on her rump. Wide, worn in, soft. Like her.

            But nothing besides old bicycle seat’s easy, she thinks. Nothing’s easy. Not anymore. Not when adult children are sick. Nothing’s easy when one child’s sick in the gut and one’s sick in the mind. Chronic conditions diagnosed when one was in college, one in grad school. Shtetl genetics at work. Suddenly, an empty nest’s refilled. Not what any of them had planned for, hoped for.

            Nothing’s easy when there are only infusions and therapists and meds, oh so many meds. Not when everyone she sees, meets, talks to asks what are those adult children up to? Over and over and over they ask. Nothing’s easy when she’s angry and life seems ludicrous, like listening to an out-of-date joke or running umbrella-less through a cold winter rain.

            Thinking of adult children, she forgets herself, finds she’s pedaling faster. But suddenly old bicycle gears upshift without warning and pedaling’s labored again.

            What’s this? she thinks. Old bicycle pushing back? Fighting back? Feigning a climb up a mountain trail on the gradual slope of a suburban street?

            Out of breath, she pulls over to the curb.

            Stop trying, old bicycle hisses. You won’t win, you won’t ascend. Adult children won’t ever get better.

            Shut up, you old bicycle, she thinks, pushing off again. Shut up, or I’ll buy a new bicycle. I’ll replace you. I can, you know.

            She wills her feet to keep moving, keep circling. She’s sweating.

            A group of fast-pedaling bikers, awash in neon orange and green spandex, pass on her left, waving and smiling. One of them rings their bike bell at her. She smiles back and hates them so much.

            But no, you won’t, old bicycle laughs. You won’t replace me. You’re too distracted, too disappointed. No, there’s nothing you can do except pedal this old bicycle.

            Oh, I can pedal this old bicycle, she thinks.

            I can pedal this old bicycle.

            She forgets, just for a moment. She forgets illness, heartache, her soft behind. She stands back up on the pedals, gulping air. She leans into the handle bars, arches her back.

            Oh, can I pedal this old bicycle.

            Like a mother.