Unlearning

 

On an autumn evening

bike ride with my father

my tires skidded

to a horizontal stop

on wet auburn leaves,

rocks lodged themselves

in my bloodied hands

and chubby little knees

 

Circling back he dismissed my tears

which trickled and mixed with

the fear in my eyes at the

sight of my body spilling red

over rough asphalt

 

He said, “Get up.”

What?! I thought incredulously

“Grab your bike. No one will help you.”

 

The walk, though short,

was tinged with pain

and the creeping sensation of…

desolation?

Long enough to make it home

with the realization

that his generation

inherited the teaching:

 

Expect to suffer randomness

eat the pain and your bootstraps

to stave off abandonment—

to ask for support is less than a last resort.

 

I have fallen down

toppled into leaves,

dirt and concrete,

bumped, and

pushed hard into

the sharp edges

of my common sense

again and again

 

The scabs heal slowly,

I’m still unlearning and growing

that impactful lesson.

There’s no merit in maintaining

pretenses of soldiering on,

do you see?

Nor shame in asking:

Can you help me?

 

Because of the people

who show up when asked

I don’t stay down long

and I can begin

to forget the past