A Letter to Scarred Feet
Dear Scarred Feet,
You might not remember me. We’ve met only once before—in the summer of 1987—for a brief but painful encounter which left you permanently marred and me unscathed but dirtied with your blood.
I’m the spokes of your Dad’s Schwinn Cruiser, and I’m writing to say: “I’m sorry.”
I remember the balmy summer evening when we were on that bike ride together in Kerkhoven and you were dangling beside me.
Part way through the bike ride, your Dad stopped by at a friends house and propped the bike with the kickstand while he went inside. While your Dad was chatting, you were playing with me and teasing me by poking your toes through my fingers.
When your Dad came out, got on the bike, and started riding home, that’s when it happened. You swung yourself through the fingers of my spokes once again, just as before. There was nothing that could be done to save you, it happened all too quickly. The spokes were moving too fast. I could almost see it in slow-motion, but I could not, for the life of me, do anything to counteract the inevitable.
You ended up getting tangled between me and the fork, and were cut, battered, and bruised as you flopped to the mercy of my unstoppable rotational rhythm. Your Dad and Mom panicked and did the only thing they could think of—rush you home and try to stop the bleeding.
You spent weeks laying on the couch, elevated, bandaged, and healing without the help of stitches or sutures while I spent lonely nights in the garage.
It was soon after that you moved to Willmar (“the big city”). I never got to say the things I wanted to, and it’s been weighing heavy on me ever since: for 18 years, believe it or not.
“I’m sorry”, Scarred Feet, for all the things I didn’t do; for the foresight I didn’t have. You deserve the best. Please accept my apologies.
Sincerely,
The spokes of your Dad’s Schwinn Cruiser
23 October 2005 — Terms: Feature