skinned knees

I miss skinned knees. I miss the excitement of every pump of my calves. I miss the control of a mechanism so simple: steering the handlebars to the left or right. I miss the sharp turns and pebbles and cracks in the sidewalks that were meant to be dodged. If they weren't, they resulted in a tumble.

Concrete against skin, creating fresh wounds that would be treated with Bactine, Neosporin, and Band-Aids. The blood left on the sidewalk would forever be splattered next to the rainbow chalk sketches of sunshines and flowers. The trauma of the very first fall was unforgettable. The shaking of the legs, the fear trumping the pain, the adrenaline rush slowly fading to one small drop. All of it ending with me, gazing at my knee in the shower, avoiding the infected area when dousing myself in soap.

Watching the wound heal was always so fascinating. Seeing the human body repair itself, getting front row seats to a recovery. Viewing the change in color from vibrant reds to pale pinks and whites until all was left were scars and bruises.

And now, staring at these knees, I see no sight of the countless falls, or the skids in the streets. The sharp turns, the pebbles, or the cracks in the sidewalks. It's as if it never happened. As if those years I spent high atop that uncomfortable cushion steering around undiscovered neighborhood streets as the sun set and the bugs came out--never even occurred.

The knees have been healed. And to be quite frank, I miss when they were skinned.