How Many Times

How many times? I repeat to myself that everything that goes up will come down again, and every time I am down, I can look forward to things getting better. That's the part I gotta focus on, the part about things getting better. Because even when things are way, way down, they go down even further if you don't plan for better days. In fact, it seems like the planning helps the better days to come.

My mom used to shop at one of about three liquor stores within walking distance of our house. And when I say shop, I mean for all the food we would get to eat. One of them was almost like a grocery store. They had potatoes, tomatoes, and wilty lettuce or cabbage. Your basic vegetables that are awful when they're past fresh. They had hot peppers and limes, and bananas that were almost completely brown already. Of course I don't mind eating Doritos (grains) and Ruffles (vegetables) and Dreyer's (dairy, protein) for a well-rounded meal, but even kids know that it's not good to eat that way.

But where else could she go? I didn't know there were other kinds of stores when I was really small, and I'll get to that revelation in a moment, but most of the stores that sold vegetables were so far away that walking would've taken all day. And on the way home, with groceries? Not that she could've afforded to buy too much of what they sold.

When my brother was about 10 and walking home from school one day he made a discovery that changed our lives. He found a bicycle. Of course, it was wrecked. But we have an older neighbor, Mr. Hillard, who happened to see Charles dragging that thing home that day.

Mr. Hillard does not mind chatting with the kids in the neighborhood. He talks to the kids like he'd speak to just about anyone. He would never say things as if we were too stupid to understand because of how small we were.

So just like he's starting a conversation with an adult, Mr. Hillard says to Charles, "That might be a nice bike, if we can get some air to stay in the tires. And straighten out the handlebars. It looks like it'll be big for you, might have to lower the seat all the way."

And just like Mr. Hillard is his long-time friend, Charles answers, "I don't know if I can fix it up. You think you can help me?"

Mr. Hillard smiled. Not a big, toothy, I'm-gonna-take-advantage-of-you smile. But like he was glad he could lend a hand, and it might be some fun to work on that bike, too. Gave them both something constructive to do.

They spent a lot of time on it, mostly so Charles learned how to do everything that Mr. Hillard knew already. They sure took their time. Afternoons after school, Charles wouldn't even come home to drop his bag off. And Mr. Hillard was just as eager, waiting on his folding chair outside his garage, with the door open on all that mess he owned. They carved out a place to fix the bike, and there was even a bicycle pump in there. I wondered if they dug a little deeper, would they find Mr. Hillard's bike?

Charles' bicycle got a little shinier.

At first Charles test-rode it up and down the side walk, not crossing any entrances or exits where a car could come out suddenly. Then one day he got brave and rode around the block. I think he was afraid that someone would come up and take it from him, so he took it easy.

Then he had the brilliant idea of putting me on the rack. Lucky me. The first time we tried, we realized that balance was going to be very important. Even at five years old I weighed enough to make him awkward. And forget riding side-saddle. Of course if I could ride that way, I had an easier time keeping my feet out of the back wheel. But then when we toppled over, I had no way of saving myself. At least with both feet out on the sides I could push myself off with my hands and land standing up.

We got it going eventually, and then we'd cruise around the block, me holding tight to the rack for the first few pedal strokes, while Charles leaned forward, putting all his weight into getting the pedals moving. Then once he sat back on the seat I would put my arms around his waist. We both got stronger for it.

Then momma got the bright idea of using that bicycle herself. It's possible the idea was in her head all along, but that she was waiting for the bike to work properly. But she decided she'd borrow it once a week, to go to a proper grocery store. I coudn't imagine what that might be, but I was happy trying anything as a kid. She said it would mean better food, I believed her.

Charles was scared he'd never see that bike again, his school backpack he didn't care about at all. He wasn't worried about momma, and he knew that he had to let her borrow it or he'd lose it altogether. He'd invested so much into the bike that to lose it would have broken his heart. But momma brought back apples. And vegetables that were crispy and brightly colored - celery, carrots, and greens so dark they were hardly green anymore. We had rice and beans, and even without fancy spices they tasted good in a way that food never had for me before. Healthy and filling. I slept better after a solid dinner, momma and I found out.

So I sit here and repeat to myself: this life can and will get better.

A voice

A funny thought: we don't inherit a voice.

Fortunately for me, I have my mother's more feminine eyebrows. But I have a version of my father's hands and feet in miniature, daintier. My fingernails are wide and short, and my toes are stubby, the big toe a rectangle, barely escaping the properties of a square.

When I look at my oldest friends, whose parents are at least acquaintances, I can see the resemblance. There are shadows and flickers of each parent, and sometimes the similarities are impossible to miss. A man can be the same shape, build, and stature as his father.

Beyond the obviously physical similarities of family members, there are also the ways that people in motion appear to be related. The way siblings learn to roll their eyes, or the expressions they make while shrugging or smirking. Softening around the eyes due to a similar sense of humor. Two people can have very different features when seen in a photograph, but once they are standing next to one another, conversing and using the same intonation, it can be clear that they learned from the same experiences. Perhaps not inherited, but formed by specific and unique circumstances.

But the sound of a voice? The tone of laughter? Uniquely yours.