Ride

My daughter rides
her bike
as I follow
behind her
cautiously.

She pedals faster
and
her long, blonde
hair
blows behind her
head like a
flag.

Her smile is
wide.

I want to be
her
on that
bike.

And I want to
feel
what she
feels
as she rides
away, swollen with
life.

And I remember
a time
when I was a
child
riding my bike
with my father
close
behind.

A time when I
did not fear
life
more than
I did
death.