In the not so early morning just before the summer heat really kicked in, three kids and their dad rode their bikes down the incline part of the long pedestrian bridge that crosses the Mississippi River connecting Memphis and Arkansas.
The first kid, the youngest, was all flash and wild determination. His 8 year old legs peddled furiously. He peddled so hard his handlebars wobbled. He didn’t smile or look up, he stayed focused as though he might actually take off. He raced ahead with the unbridled joy of speed and wind and engine noises roaring in his mind.
The second kid, a few years older, had none of the reckless abandon of his younger brother. He was serious and maybe a little bored. He also didn’t smile or make eye contact as we passed. He might have been anticipating the fall, the spillage of his younger brother – all legs and spokes and spinning wheels sliding and scraping the metal floor beneath. This middle child looked like he had gotten used to cleaning up messes. If the pull of life’s little rebellions don’t drag him under, he’ll grow up to be a law-abiding citizen with a good job and prudent retirement goals. He won’t go more than ten miles per hour over the speed limit, he’ll always put his cart back at the grocery store and grumble as he drags someone else’s stray cart with him.
The third child, maybe in his early-teens, already looked like he had negotiated a real estate deal on the golf course. Preppy collard short sleeve shirt, clean khaki shorts. His face was round and pleasant in that awkward way teens can be – just starting to get red cluster breakouts and vocal shifts. He looked directly at me and smiled. If his youngest brother is the wild and adventurous one and his middle brother is somewhat tormented by keeping the peace and following the rules, his is the voice of all three. He is the one that tries to bring balance and harmony. He is the one who steps out front to soften whatever blow the world may be bringing down on them.
The father trailed well behind all three sons. Slightly heavy and slow in his ride, I wanted him to share in the exuberance of his kids, or at least the first and the last. He rode a lot like the middle child, maybe a little tired and used to cleaning up messes. He didn’t show joy or anger or even the oblivious distraction that so many middle-aged dads are guilty of showing. He had the look of a man who has had dreams for his kids and is already realizing that they will fall short and follow their own path – several dreams already out of reach. He was already becoming practiced at passing down his sighs. He had the look of a man who some days pushes against the walls of a world that is always closing in. He is a man who believes in science and god and has found trust and comfort in the everyday safety of gravity. He knows that when he wakes in the morning and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the feel and pressure of his feet meeting the floor is a consistency and comfort that he can count on. And today he doesn’t have to push. Today as he approached the downward slope of the bridge, his three boys off ahead, he had a few moments when he could ease up a bit and coast into the slow glide and downward pull of that gravity he had come to know and trust – a little like falling, a little like letting everything go before him.