Stumbling Towards Perfect

My aunt tried to call her children to tell them Avery had died. I think about that sometimes. Those phone calls. How people found out. The numbers that were dialed first. The words that were spoken. The reaction. I remember calling my cousin on the way to the hospital. To this day I feel so bad that I put that responsibility on her. Avery died. Please tell the others...   Can you imagine receiving such a phone call? My aunt called her children. Except she couldn't get a hold of Little Luke. I used to call him Ducky when he was little. The most perfect child I had ever laid eyes on. Luke was sweet. Gentle. Loving. He had the best giggle in the world. And I adored the way he said my name in his precious voice, unable to pronounce the "r"... Bwidget. In the months before she died, Avery started insisting that we write Luke a letter to tell him we were praying for him. I never did that. I didn't know then what I know with every fiber of my being now -- tha

Years ago, the man I began dating had a motorcycle. He grew up in a family of Harley riders - his brothers, father and even his mother drove motorcycles. I did not. I grew up with 4-wheeler's on dusty trails. Dirt bikes that soared over soft hills. Snowmobiles that raced through open fields. We did not do hard pavement and oncoming traffic at 55-miles per hour. My hesitation and concern was voiced. It was simply not something I did. Not something I had ever done. Not something I was sure I even wanted to experience. Because hopping on a motorcycle means hopping on something that might, quite possibly, hurt you. There were stories. Newspaper articles and breaking news announcements proving that one could get hurt when riding a motorcycle. He heard me. Heard my fears. And brought me a helmet. He talked to me about how to lean into a curve and how it was dangerous to try to do the opposite. He explained how hot the pipes were and how to hang on. He promised to go slow.