Oil, pen, and paper on panel, 18” x 24”, Framed

Traditions

By Brooke Dearman

“Don’t look. Just peddle!”

He’d been practicing in the driveway since lunch, stopping only to watch as classmates giggled and screeched, laughter becoming distant as they disappeared down the hill. 

His mother remembers the feeling of flying like it was yesterday. How could she deny him that? 

Still, she prepares to cover her eyes with one hand and traces the scar on her knee with the other.

Her son peddles to the edge of the bluff, stops, and peers down at the drop. 

Her shoulders relax. He has always been cautious, like her. They can try again next summer. They’ll both be ready then.

Her son peddles back towards her and she waves. But there is a fearful determination in his face.

He circles back to the hill, peddling like mad. Her breath catches. 

But this time she watches the whole thing. She can barely remember scraping her knee, anyway.