Bike

You taught me to ride a bike.

The metaphors here arrive fully assembled, no poet required:
A father letting go, a daughter learning balance.
So predictable, I wonder if the memory:
sunlight, sidewalk, scabbed knees
is even my own.

Except that I remember the line of fear
running from throat to stomach
the urgency to learn in that one or two afternoons
before your attention shifted
before your bags were packed
and I had missed my chance to figure it out.