A short story I wrote recently...................
The
clanging of the gears sliding through the complex contraption screech as they
rub metal on metal. I glance up at the mammoth
amusement ride they call The Monster.
The
man running the machine nods in my direction.
“You’re next. Just stand on the
platform and sit back when the seat swings forward.”
My
five-year-old daughter stands next to me on her tiptoes, arms reaching towards
the sky. “Momma, I want to go this
high.”
We
step on the platform as the scoop like chair sweeps us off our feet. As we sail past, the man reaches over and
locks the bar in place as we make the turn heading upward. My daughter keeps her hands in the air. I grip tightly to the bar and close my eyes.
The
large wheel starts and stops as he locks other riders firmly in place. Finally, we begin our trip. Up and up, round and round. I look out over the festive scene below. Bright lights, a myriad of brilliant colors
dot the scenery. The aroma of popcorn,
mixed with the burnt sugar smell of cotton candy wafts through the air.
Below
us, a man shouts at carnival goers as they walk passed. “Guess your age, guess
your weight.”
In
the background bells ring, horns blare.
The
seat we are riding in stops abruptly at the top. It swings in the air, finally settling in
position high above the chaos below. My
daughter leans forward, causing the bucket to sway. She wants to experience the view by looking
straight down. I grab the back of her
pants as she leans farther forward, the bar digging into her tiny stomach below
the Hello Kitty tee.
“Sit
back,” I yell above the machine and the chorus of noise from the carnival
below.
My
daughter looks back at me over her shoulder, “I’m not scared.”
“It’s
dangerous,” I plead. “Please sit back.”
She
sits back, smiles up at me and then pats my hand. “I’m okay, Momma. Don’t be afraid.”
Thirteen years later.
Two
weeks ago, my daughter graduated from high school. Due to an early admission to college she is
packed and ready to drive with her best friend the four hours to her dormitory.
We
stand in the drive. My husband is snapping
pictures for her memory book I started when she was born.
I
hug her close.
“It’s
okay, Mom. I’m not scared.”
“It’s
just dangerous out there.” I hold her
close, imagining that if I don’t let go, she can’t move on.
“I’m
not five.”
As
I let her go, I want to tell her that to me she will always be that
five-year-old, staring down from the top of the Ferris wheel, unafraid. I want to tell her that her independence and
fearlessness scares the hell out of me.
I want her to know that no matter where she goes or what she does, she
will always be that small child reaching for the sky and my love and my fears
will always be with her.
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