B r o k e n B i k e s

 By Kristi Chon


My grandfather loved breaking broken things
Without prompting or permission
His eyes nearly shut in concentration,
Peering at the grimacing gears
Click, click, click.

I learned to ride a bike on a flat tire
A foolish determination to conquer the
Yet my body wobbled wherever Wind
Changed its mind to venture
Clunk, clunk, clunk.

A mirror beckoned my gaze one ride
A house of five
A mother’s glimmering eyes
Tracing the outline of a broken frame
Crack, crack, crack.


Capture this.
Her father used to hoist her
Giggling, above his head whenever he saw
Glimmering glass sleeping on the sidewalk
At the cost of a dropped bag of groceries


Later, she stands knee deep
In a pool of green shards and bad breath
Cradling a head above the ground
A stomach and mind refusing to quiet
As she ponders the meaning of being held


The story interrupted as
The vehicle I once trusted gave way
To a groove in the gravel
My body a stone
Skidding across the surface

Click. Clunk. Crack.

My blurry vision found my beloved grandfather
Who stood over me with a perplexed complexion.


Would I too, remain broken?
Perhaps one day,
They’d see what their fixing had done