The Last Inch of the Magic

The red bike in the driveway had a flat tire and for the first time, I didn't try to fix it with a band-aid. I just looked at the rubber and the gravel and knew it was broken. Yesterday, I would have told it a story until it felt better. Today, it’s just metal and air.

My hands are the same size but they feel like they’ve forgotten how to hold a crayon without pressing too hard. I tried to draw a bird but I kept worrying if the wings were in the right place, instead of just letting it fly off the page. The kitchen table is still taller than me but I can see the dust on top of it now. I can see the cracks in the paint that I never noticed when I was six.

The sun is going down and the streetlights are humming a song I don’t know the words to anymore. I’m waiting for my mom to call me inside but I’m not running toward the door like there’s a ghost behind me. I’m just walking. I’m just a kid in a backyard, holding a stick that used to be a sword, wondering when it turned back into wood.