The Day the Hand Let Go

Yara could ride her bike. Really she could — pedals, steering, the little bell, everything.

There was just one part of the bike she couldn’t ride without: Papa’s hand on the back of the seat.

Every Saturday they went to the park, and every Saturday it was the same. Yara pedalled, and Papa ran alongside, one hand on the seat, and it was wonderful — right up until the moment she’d feel his hand about to leave, and then:

“DON’T LET GO!”

“I’ve got you,” Papa would puff, and keep holding on. Around the duck pond. Past the big tree. All the way home, hand on seat, every Saturday.

But this Saturday, while Yara was ringing her bell at the ducks, Papa asked a funny question.

“Yara — when you’re pedalling, what is my hand actually doing back there?”

Yara had never thought about it. “Holding me up!”

“Hm,” said Papa. “Is it, though? Feel carefully this time.”

So they set off down the path, and Yara pedalled, and she felt carefully. Pedals: her feet. Steering: her hands. The whooshing along: her legs, going round and round. And Papa’s hand on the seat, doing…

…doing what, exactly?

“Are you holding me up right now?” she called.

“Barely touching,” puffed Papa. “Haven’t held you up since the daffodils. You’ve been carrying yourself for two weeks, little bird. My hand’s just been telling your brave part that it’s there.”

“DON’T LET GO ANYWAY!”

“I won’t let go,” said Papa, “until you say.”

They went around the duck pond. Past the big tree. And somewhere along the straight bit, where the path is smooth and the morning sun comes through the leaves in stripes, Yara took a big breath and heard herself say the thing:

“Okay. Let go. But stay CLOSE.”

“Letting go,” said Papa. “Staying close.”

And the hand lifted away.

Here is what happened: nothing. Nothing fell over. The bike whooshed on. The pedals went round, the handlebars held steady, the wind kept rushing past her ears — all of it exactly the same as before, because it had been hers all along. For one wobbly second Yara’s tummy didn’t believe it. Then the second passed, and the path kept coming, and she was riding — really, truly, only-Yara riding — with Papa’s feet pounding along behind her and his voice going up like a firework:

“YOU’RE DOING IT! ALL YOU! EVERY BIT OF IT — ALL! YOU!”

She rang the bell the whole length of the path. The ducks were extremely alarmed. She didn’t care. She rode past the big tree, turned a huge careful circle, and came whooshing back to Papa, who was standing in the middle of the path with his arms up like she’d won a cup.

“You let go!” she shouted, glowing.

“You said the word,” said Papa. “That’s how it works. The letting go was yours too.”

They stayed at the park all morning. Papa didn’t touch the seat again — but he ran alongside for a while anyway, close, just there, because that’s the other thing about brave:

it grows best with somebody running next to it.

Even after they’ve let go.