The Crash of '98

My mother’s own ragamuffin and just eight years old all I wanted was to fly. The closest I could get to the atmosphere was by taking a spin on my two-wheeler bike-- enlisting gravity and the Nevada hills as co-pilots. Each driveway was my runway as I swerved in and out of each gathering more speed through the momentum as I went until the street spat me out at the park. Here I watched the older boys skateboard, spit, and curse in their cut-off jeans. I’d make it a complete round-trip around the block, repeated until the sun and mosquitoes told me it was time to go home for dinner.

One day an engine failure on the runway caused a crash, both bloody and memorable. There was no loss of life, but the I, as the pilot, was quite shaken and cried for the three days  following. Scrapes on the nose, shoulder, elbows, knees, and forehead, some larger than the standard Band-aid could cover covered my skin. I was walked home by a concerned neighbor.The parental officials then had to take pictures for later documentation and paperwork that would have to take place according to the familial standard procedures. Over my sobs they tried to explain that I would be grateful for the evidence one day.

The parents coaxed me into a warm bath that stung real bad. I lay there soaking and floating with washcloths on my wounds until I was sufficiently pruned. They then disinfected and bandaged me before releasing me to heal privately. The next week at school I wore the scabs as badged of honor as I thematically winced and limped everywhere I went.