Driving home from work one night last week through the subdivision near the office, I saw a terrible scene: a young girl mounted on a bicycle that had just tipped over. She wasn't hurt, of course; but she was learning to balance and had no one to help her. Memories abound from the days, over two decades ago, when my father would give me a running start down the sidewalk and let me ride until I pitched over into the grass — one end to the other, back and forth. Where was the girl's father? Her mother? An older sibling? Not to be seen, and as I drove past, a little crushed, she awkwardly pulled the simple machine up from its resting place on the concrete.
I just looked out my eighth-story window and in the parking lot, a South Asian fellow is pushing his daughter slowly, carefully, while she steers her pink-and-white rider. Around and around they go.
ON THE WAY: Now the father is pushing her and running along as she totters forward. She's closer than I thought.