Day 72.

(fiction)
To My Alleyway Mama

Mama, it's me. I know you don't remember but it's okay. I want you to remember but I don't need you to. Maybe a couple things. Remember one Christmas I bought you a bicycle? I saved up the endless spending money Father gave me. You had a lifelong fear of being run over so you rode it in quiet afternoon alleyways, mapping out where the overhanging fig branches or blackberry brambles were. You knew which neighbors had turned out beloved, broken furniture to rust and fade and grow skins of dust and spiderwebs. You heard their backyard secrets through the fences as you pedaled. You were not very good at steering. The vagrant cats and slinking dogs had their eyes on you after their first terrifying close call with your front wheel. But you were fond of them, even if they came out of nowhere to scare you and swerve you. You called them names that made no sense to me, and would refer to them as people, old friends, news of whom could make or break a day. You even named the bicycle: Clarise. I told this to Father one day and he changed the subject and mussed my hair. I heard him packing from my room but you were on the bike, and you were on the bike when Father started the car, and you were on the bike when I skidded into the kitchen where he left the note: I have an apartment on the other side of town. I'll call you. I'm sorry.
I ran outside. You were coming home and he was leaving and you saw my face and knew. You followed him to the busy street two blocks down, and then you stood and let Clarise fall on the sidewalk and you were crying, but you smiled because I was running after you like an irritated bird with my elbows out like that. You told me Get on the handlebars so I did and you were unsteady but we made it home okay.
You still call him Papa when he comes to pick me up.