r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
spring 2009 poetry
For Dad, a Year After His Death
by Cathy Gilbert
Today I remembered you
teaching me to ride my bike without training wheels.
I held tight to the pink handle grips
as you held me steady, your piano hands stretching
beyond the full octave to guide me
by the back of the polka dotted seat.
I felt the comfort of you next to me.
As we started out, my feet pedaled,
and you huffed alongside, keeping me balanced.
The wind in my face grew stronger,
my feet more impatient, and those two wheels
carried me faster and farther than ever before.
I stopped, a thrilled laugh exploding,
placed my feet on the ground
and turned to you
but you weren't there.
I'd left you long ago, and I squinted
to see you small in the distance
of the street length between us.
I wanted to see you smiling,
but the sun burned my eyes
and silhouetted you into shadow.
And then I put my foot back to the pedal
and set off on my own, feeling
the ghost of your presence still at my side.
spring 2009 poetry
For Dad, a Year After His Death
by Cathy Gilbert
Today I remembered you
teaching me to ride my bike without training wheels.
I held tight to the pink handle grips
as you held me steady, your piano hands stretching
beyond the full octave to guide me
by the back of the polka dotted seat.
I felt the comfort of you next to me.
As we started out, my feet pedaled,
and you huffed alongside, keeping me balanced.
The wind in my face grew stronger,
my feet more impatient, and those two wheels
carried me faster and farther than ever before.
I stopped, a thrilled laugh exploding,
placed my feet on the ground
and turned to you
but you weren't there.
I'd left you long ago, and I squinted
to see you small in the distance
of the street length between us.
I wanted to see you smiling,
but the sun burned my eyes
and silhouetted you into shadow.
And then I put my foot back to the pedal
and set off on my own, feeling
the ghost of your presence still at my side.
