The Promise

The December days

were set in motion and

Christmas was fast approaching.

I had begged for an

English racer,

a ten-speed bicycle.

In the early morning hours

when all should have been

nestled in their beds,

like a bug in a rug,

I was awakened

by a noise in the living room.

I had spied on Dad

placing my racer

near the tinsel-ladened tree.

It was a breed of bike

that I had never ridden before,

one with funny-looking handlebars,

handbrakes, a skimpy seat, gear levers,

cables, cogs, front and rear derailleurs, toe-straps, and skinny tires.

Inflated with excitement,

I rushed back to bed undetected and

finally fell to sleep.

The moment my lids

met the morning

my feet were on the floor

awaking everyone

that Christmas was here!

After unwrapping my smaller

gifts with a savage passion,

I took my steed out for a test ride

in the crisp morning air.

Since my parents were unfamiliar

in how to ride an English racer,

I had to learn by trial and error.

Riding a ten-speed bicycle was foreign to me:

braking by hand instead of by foot, shifting gears,

feet strapped to the pedals,

and tires that only worked on

hard surfaces.

Riding it required some thought rather than simply

jumping on and taking off.

But I was elated by the newness of it all

and eager to hit the road.

When I returned home

I hastily made a promise to mom

that if she ever needed anything

from the sundries store

that I would be happy to go and get it for her…

She skeptically smiled and

told me that promise wouldn’t last too long.

I protested mildly.

Within a short time, she was proven right.

Once the novelty wore off

it was harder to keep that promise

made on Christmas Day.

I guess a promise is only as good

as the one peddling it.