| simply put.
Simply put, this was not the best day. While it was far from the "worst" (being that the "worst" would most likely involve some sort of injury, possibly even the loss of one or more limbs, or a vital organ), she still decided that the day was definitely not amongst the most pleasurable she had endured. Although one does not exactly "endure" a pleasurable day -- one enjoys said day, despite facing the inevitable closure of it.
Regardless, we can all agree that there is some grey area involved. Excluding any time spent in the womb, she had lived through 8,759 full days, which left her just a few hours shy of 24 years, if you measure age in years and not in experience. If we were to go according to the latter, she would have fallen somewhere in her mid-forties, of course that figure would be highly debatable due to the intrinsically abstract nature of its calculation methods. So at almost 24 years, being 8,759 days and some change, she surmised that being a fairly happy person allowed for her to count about 68% of them as pleasurable. If you are keeping track, that would be pretty close to 6,000. Further sorting and refining then leads us to 2,000 -- the number, amongst the pleasurable, which fall into the category of the "best." That is not to say that there were not many wonderful moments which peeked their head through otherwise miserable stretches of time, and vice versa, but for the sake of data standards and uniformity we will go according to the Christian calendar. It's much easier that way.
There was the day that she came home from school, only to realize she had forgotten her house key. Sometimes when you are only 3,830 days young, it is easy to misplace such inconsequential objects. Far more important are the following:
1. Jump rope for double-dutch.
2. Notebook for schoolwork (beginning with the page one) and notes to friends (beginning with the final page, number one hundred and twenty, and working towards the front).
3. New rain boots, purchased three weeks ago but previously unworn due to the recent and unfortunate lack of inclement weather.*
*The boots, admittedly, had been worn throughout the house 17 days ago in order to constructively channel the excitement of their purchase, yet their tread did not yet show any wear.
Despite not being able to remember much about her classes from that day, she could still easily conjure up the sounds and fragrances of sitting on the front porch, listening to the remnants of the morning showers make their way down a maze of burnt orange and fiery red foliage. She stared down at the long slab which comprised her porch, which was beginning to show its age by opening up into a pool of pebbles on one end, and could see the outer edge of it still damp from the rainfall. After gazing into the infinite patterns contained within the concrete, it was not long before she was organizing little clusters of them into pictures and designs. There was the face of an old man directly adjacent to her right foot, up around where her pinky toe sat (when she was not tapping it), and there definitely was a large dragon over in the corner. For some reason the dragon was holding a spoon.
She dug around in her navy blue backpack, looking for some sort of entertainment within that would possibly allow the next three hours to pass a bit more expediently. There was a candy from last week, when she had to go to the doctor's office for a check-up (the strawberry kind, with the strawberry print on the wrapper and the chewy strawberry center that she always, without fail, bit into prematurely), and half of a half of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she had brought to school for lunch. That would do for now.
Something about that sandwich was glorious. It had been in existence just long enough for the jelly to partially soak the whole-wheat and peanut butter barrier which encased it, because jelly, after all, is not rich and gooey like peanut butter, nor is it thick and porous like bread. It would be the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that all those which followed would be measured against, fair or not -- the gold standard of PB&J, if you will.
Even now, she could feel it against the roof of her mouth, the swirls and pockets of bread slices succumbing to the sweet-yummyness of grape jelly and the stern, reticent peanut butter. That, it was concluded, would be included amongst the "best days," not that it was pivotal or defining in any way, but its sheer simplicity had bumped it up a few classes, not to mention that it had somehow stayed afloat in a seemingly endless sea of competing memories. A deep crimson Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum) leaf fell from above and landed before her, right beside her tapping foot, and slightly above the group of concrete speckles which made up the face of the old man.
*********
There was the day the two of them, him a now-forgotten lover, and she a hopelessly infatuated 6,438 day-old girl, both said be damned be the world and ran down the street holding hands under the protection of the warm glow of youthful love. He would hurt her deeply one day, wring her soul dry, but that had nothing to do with this particular memory. She could barely remember the days when they had believed completely, entirely, and unconditionally in one another, let alone even his face -- although she could easily recall his smell. A weighty, musty odor which turned sweet on its tail-end, it was unable to succeed on its own merits, but became comforting as the years passed. She also, from time to time, would recall the way his large, coarse hands longingly clasped hers. There were times, to this day, that his odor lazily danced into her nostrils, unexpectedly, and she could instantly feel his hand in hers, the rough area under his thumb chafing her then-teenaged palm. Curiously enough, there was a scar in that space now, on her left hand, from when she bought a second-hand bike but forgot that she hadn't ridden one in quite some time. Of all her scars, however, it was definitely her favorite, and she did not rue either its placement or the circumstances which gave birth to it.
The bike had belonged to a neighbor of hers who lived quite close to the flat she inhabited during days 7,467 through 7,830. He would be moving away to study abroad, and the pair had always gotten on extremely well with one another, so the bicycle was passed along at a figure far below its worth (monetarily that is -- in spirit, no price could be affixed). The remainder of the cost was made up for by keeping good company, which was freely and willfully done in the remaining days before his departure. The Thursday prior to him leaving, for instance, was spent hunting down an ice cream truck, which may sound simple in theory, however proved to be extremely difficult in practice (this was a particularly elusive ice cream-carrying vessel). The prize was well worth the hunt though, as they were able (after 45 exhausting minutes and seemingly just as many blocks) to cut off their prey at the intersection of 15th and King Street and partake in the bountiful treasures contained within -- all for the sum of only three dollars and forty-five cents. The sun was close to gone at that point, yet it hung longingly in the sky to allow an indigo glow to blanket the city, with hints and flashes of orange brilliance popping up at unexpected intervals. The air was heavy that night, the kind of heavy that causes brows to bead and skin to become adhesive. As they stopped to catch their breath, she raised her cone in salute to all before her, the love around her, and the ice cream that had begun to slowly trickle down her index finger in a feeble attempt to avoid consumption. Unfortunately for ice cream, human beings have become quite adept at using their tongues as instruments to thwart any prospective escape plans that may be hatched by melting confections.
She would eventually affix white and purple tassels to the handlebars of the bike, in an effort to offset the decidedly muscular appearance of the vehicle. Having a bike would be beneficial, she reasoned -- it was certainly no substitute for a good friend, but Senor Bicicleta would be a pleasant reminder of his invigorating spirit nonetheless. The first (and until now, most recent) bike in her possession had a small number of features this new one did not, such as a wicker basket and glittery, purple paint (the catalog her father had ordered it from called it "metallic violet aura," which inspired the matte purple tassels on Bike #2), so it would go without saying that Bike #1 was duly missed. It was no longer the constant companion and symbol of her presence it was when she was a little girl, and now rested in peace somewhere near her parents' front porch. If you were there at this precise moment, Bike #1 would be currently located directly to the left of the now numerous pools of pebbles, which had had expanded in their advanced years and given way to cracks and crevices and thin shards of stone, cutting the dragon in half and making the face of the old man look very confused and disoriented.
There is, of course, an old saying about riding bikes, which I will spare repeating to you but will allow you to run through your head at your own accord. And yes, the saying is relatively true for the most part, but it leaves no allotment for the possibility that while the rider may have steered many bicycles successfully in the past, each one is its own entity, with a unique history and an individual set of experiences. This bike, for example, had led a fairly rich life before exchanging hands -- not an easy life, by any means, but still rich. It had dots of tar coating its thick torso, a slightly-compressed right handle from falling to avoid an oncoming automobile two Januarys ago, and a few small tears in the seat due to an unplanned visit to a patch of thorn bushes. It's original keeper and guardian had even stumbled upon love while riding it -- he on the way home from a small bookstore (empty handed; the novel he sought was out-of-stock), she leaving the grocery store two blocks down the street, having just purchased three avocados, seven apples, one pack of Reese's Pieces for her younger brother, and half a gallon of 2% milk (1% would have been preferable, although the recipe called for whole, and she reasoned 2% was a perfectly reasonable compromise between the two). She would be the only girl he would ever love.
But the bike was no longer his. He was far, far away now, and it was now our subject's responsibility to tame. She slipped her left foot onto the pedal and swung her right leg over the seat, firmly planting herself on top of her new travel companion. The handlebars felt slightly out of reach, so she uncomfortably arched her back in order to grasp them and keep balance. So far so good.
It was a wobbly ride at best, though this was not the bike’s fault. It was perfectly adept at performing its duties; perhaps too adept for a rider of her experience level. Her right foot was not confident enough, and it spent too much time looking for a proper place to rest while she negotiated the hilly terrain surrounding her building.
The park would be a good place to go, she decided. After all, people do all sorts of active things in parks, riding a bike being one of them. Jogging too, and sometimes eating, which puzzled her momentarily as to why the same space used for fitness would also be used for consuming hamburgers and ribs. Regardless, park it would be. Bike #2 agreed.
For thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds Bike #2 behaved as it should, and even for fifty-three seconds of that time she imagined herself reunited with Bike #1, tassels flapping and dancing in the wind as they set forth on their maiden voyage. At thirteen minutes and forty-eight seconds exactly, as she whirred through a curve of the narrow asphalt path, her balance was thrown off just enough to send the bike in one direction and her in another. She tumbled across the turf and soon found herself on her back, in a patch of grass, the sun partially blurring her vision and the clickety-clickety-clickety sound of a still-spinning wheel in the background.
The celery-green blades wrapped themselves around her body, some succumbing to her weight, others popping up here and there at awkward angles. Her heaving chest slowly resumed a comfortable pattern of inhalation of oxygen and exhalation of carbon dioxide, and even as wounds began to open on her right knee and on her left palm, a feeling of serenity began to inhabit her entire being. The earth smelled sweet. The sunlight was soon fractured into millions of thin bars as a tree shuffled its branches with the wind, and a pair of butterflies with golden wings chased each other across her field of vision. Suddenly, an outstretched hand appeared above her, as the clickety-clickety-clickety ceased its relentless ticking.
Now that -- that was a truly wonderful day. And really, today, number 8,760 on planet Earth, well that was actually quite wonderful as well.
They all are.
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