You came to me after Frank passed, handed down from his brother who never could keep a bike longer than a season.
First I painted you fire-engine red — to cover up the chipped green that reminded me of things I wasn't ready to remember.
Then last month, after Arthur got down on one knee at the diner counter, I painted you again. This time a deep blue. Like the sky the morning we take our trip.
You take me to work every shift at 5:30 AM. Twelve blocks. Two stops for breath.
The coin jar on my windowsill is half full — euros from a German trucker, pesos from a family passing through, a few Canadian loonies I couldn't spend.
I've been sitting here studying passport renewal forms. My last one expired the year you first came to me.
Arthur says we'll go to Paris. I told him I'd rather see the Grand Canyon on my Schwinn.
Starting over, I've learned, isn't about a new coat of paint. It's about knowing you'll stay long enough to need the second one.