The Cycle

by Charlotte Orman, Namadgi School

“Change is inevitable in life. You can either resist it and potentially get run over by it, or you can choose to cooperate with it, adapt to it, and learn how to benefit from it. When you embrace change you will begin to see it as an opportunity for growth.”

Jack Canfield

Summer

I was ten when I learnt how to ride a bike. 

I scored a G-shaped cut into my knee the first time I tried, so naturally I was terrified. I remember shaking all over as Dad clipped my knee pads into place, crying when I mounted the cherry-red bike I’d gotten for my birthday, and laughing after I was pushed off. 

It felt like flying. 

…

Autumn

The wind bites at the tip of my nose as I speed past the houses. I know where the bumps and cracks lie: I have taken this route many times. An earbud sits in my left ear. I can hear a beat, vocals, the plucking of a guitar. Nostalgia I have yet to understand. It’s early enough that the sun hasn’t quite set, but is instead swathing the tops of the trees in golden light. Warm on my bare arms. A soft Autumn day where I am alone and I am free. 

I pass a yellow rose bush and stop to pick one. It blooms where I place it, tucked into the strap of my helmet, secure. There is an elderly woman taking out the rubbish. I wave to her; she doesn’t wave back. I don’t mind.

My legs do not ache as they once did. I feel powerful sitting behind the handlebars, safe in my own right and able to go where I please. I’m in control.

I see a man walking his dog. He smiles as I move past him. Maybe he is a doctor, or an accountant, or a bartender. Maybe he has three daughters at home, and he takes them on walks around Lake Tuggeranong every Sunday. Maybe he has never smoked. Maybe he lives in an orange-stained brick house full of memories of his late wife. Maybe she lies in the hypoallergenic tissues he still buys, in the caramel lattes he’s grown to like, in the dreams of his children and the heels kept in a dusty box in the top of the closet. Stories invent themselves in the way he walks; the scar sitting above his eyebrow. The dog tags around his neck.

I wonder what it would be like to run away. To smash my piggy bank into a thousand pieces, take the money and pack a bag. I think I would make a new person of myself. These bones do not belong to me anymore; they are remnants of an old self that died the day I left home.

…

Winter

This feeling is… different. The air is colder, the light is greyer. The route remains the same; muscle memory guides me through the empty suburbs. My hair is shorter now. I’m layered up to protect my skin from the wind. It’s late: the sun is hiding behind the clouds as I ride through the familiar streets.

Birds litter the telephone wires, angry and loud. My feet slip inside my shoes.

I’m hit with the realisation that I’m suddenly more alone in the world. Ellie died this week, on Mum’s birthday no less. Home without her feels especially empty. She has, had, I remind myself, this funny way of sitting, back paws between her front ones like a toddler. 

God, she could bark. Will our other dog be able to alert us of intruders? How will he cope? He’s getting old, after all; twelve in September. I can’t deal with this hurried march of time, this constant change, this …

I’m torn out of my thoughts as I hit a bump. White flash. Collision. 

Dark.

…

Spring

Logically, I know change is inevitable. It’s a natural part of life, or whatever that guy said.

But it still saddens me when I see the neighbours have moved. Mum told me something about the kids living there effectively becoming orphans, their dad in prison and their mother six feet under. I wish I could’ve seen them before they left. They helped us out when Missy got stuck in the drain, handing Chris a surprisingly large bucket of golf balls and dancing on the manholes alongside us. 

Lucy and Kyle are sweet kids. I wonder if that’s what hardship does to you, turns you gentle.

Lucy and I would sit on the footpath, drawing chalk flowers on the pavement while Kyle showed us the magic tricks learnt that week. We would laugh and laugh, our backs on the warm concrete, lungs aching and smiles wide. 

It was beautiful, that hazy February we spent together. I’ll miss them.

I turn the corner and find petals covering the road. Small, pink – they must be cherry blossoms. Their smell fills my senses, honey sweet. I swerve to avoid them with my wheels. I want to maintain the magic for others to see; a cotton candy road, like something out of The Nutcracker. 

An old man waves at me as I pass him, his arms around his granddaughter. He looks young in this moment, childlike with wonder at the beauty of the 6 o’clock sunset.

I’m almost home, now, the sun resting on the horizon, sky decorated with golden clouds.

A familiar story unfolds in my mind.

Mum has just walked into the kitchen, pets tailing her. Chris has knocked on James’ door and they laugh as Chris makes a reference to some obscure thing only they know about. Everyone’s standing together, working together. Easy-going. Drinks are made, jokes are groaned at.

And best of all, when I walk through the front door, flushed and grinning, sweaty and content, there will be a glass of iced tea waiting for me.