I Used to Love Spring
by Jon Roth
I used to love the crisp mornings of early June in Northern California, when school is still in session and the kids can almost taste the summer break. I loved the way the cool air would rush into the garage as I sent Jaiya on her way to school. Coffee in hand, I’d stand on the driveway, wish her a good day, and tell her to be careful. She would respond with mumbled single-word replies. “Thanks. Okay.”
And as I would watch her peddle down our quiet little street, I’d loudly proclaim my love for her, knowing it would embarrass her but hoping it also somehow, even secretly, made her happy. Sometimes, dads can’t help themselves—at least, this dad can’t.
I miss those mornings and seeing her off to school. It was always quite an ordeal, getting her backpack packed, her water bottle filled, her snack together, her shoes on and tied, the “Bye mom!” up the stairs to mom getting ready for work. I’d hold open the door from the house so she could see the two steps down into the dark garage and find the button to open the garage door.
I miss the creaking of the garage door opening, the click-click-click of her bike being wheeled out of the garage between her mom’s and my cars and onto the driveway. This time of year, late spring, we would be greeted by the sound of the lawnmowers and leaf blowers of the landscapers working quickly before the California sun made work outside unbearable. I used to love spring.
Jaiya was old enough to ride to school by herself. “Daaad,” she would say, stretching the word into two syllables, “I’m going to be in middle school this fall,” as if I needed reminding that she was growing up faster than I wanted to let go. Many of the other sixth graders rode their bikes to Lakewood Elementary. Sometimes, on a nice spring morning, it looked like a veritable train of bikes, as they ran single file in the bike lane alongside the rush hour traffic on Jefferson. But if you’re running late, as Jaiya often did, the bike lane would likely be empty.
Charlie, who lives across the street, would often drive his two kids to school. Lakewood was only three-quarters of a mile away, but Charlie’s kids were younger. Seeing Charlie depart before she did always lit a fire under Jaiya, and she’d take off down the road following his big green truck, her braids bouncing from underneath her helmet.
This morning, I can hear the lawnmowers in my otherwise quiet house. I take my coffee and walk past the laundry room to the garage. I pull open the door, step down into the garage, and let the door shut firmly behind me. I am surrounded by darkness. The air is still and smells slightly musty, reminiscent of a mausoleum. I stand there for a moment, alone.
What am I doing here?
My hand finds and depresses the button to open the garage door. At the far end of the garage, the 2-bay door creaks open and sunlight floods the once-darkened tomb. Like a moth to a flame, I walk toward the light, past her bike lying in the space her mother used to park her car when she lived here. The crumpled bike frame and bent wheels remain where they were placed that June morning two years ago. The police said the SUV driver had been distracted, something about a cell phone and typing. I have never been clear on whether the distraction was the reason the SUV was driving in the bike line or the reason it was going 50 in a 30-mph zone.
I don’t go out much anymore. But when I do, I can’t bear to drive on Jefferson. The cars ignore the posted speed limit and rush through the stop signs. The 6-foot-long scar scraped into the bike lane’s asphalt still forces kids to swerve to either side of it, even two years later.
I step out onto my driveway and into the bright morning sunlight. The air is crisp, but the sun is warm on my skin. My eyes are not used to the light, and so I squint. Then I see Jaiya riding her bike down the street, going to school. I shout “Jaiya, I love you!” knowing it will embarrass her.
But it is not Jaiya on the bike. My eyes have adjusted to the light, and I can now see it is Jade, Charlie’s daughter. She is now 2 years older and in the fifth grade. Jade stops her bike and turns around to look at me. I can see the confused look on her face.
I wave. She stares at me. I retreat to the garage and close the door. I used to love spring.
And as I would watch her peddle down our quiet little street, I’d loudly proclaim my love for her, knowing it would embarrass her but hoping it also somehow, even secretly, made her happy. Sometimes, dads can’t help themselves—at least, this dad can’t.
I miss those mornings and seeing her off to school. It was always quite an ordeal, getting her backpack packed, her water bottle filled, her snack together, her shoes on and tied, the “Bye mom!” up the stairs to mom getting ready for work. I’d hold open the door from the house so she could see the two steps down into the dark garage and find the button to open the garage door.
I miss the creaking of the garage door opening, the click-click-click of her bike being wheeled out of the garage between her mom’s and my cars and onto the driveway. This time of year, late spring, we would be greeted by the sound of the lawnmowers and leaf blowers of the landscapers working quickly before the California sun made work outside unbearable. I used to love spring.
Jaiya was old enough to ride to school by herself. “Daaad,” she would say, stretching the word into two syllables, “I’m going to be in middle school this fall,” as if I needed reminding that she was growing up faster than I wanted to let go. Many of the other sixth graders rode their bikes to Lakewood Elementary. Sometimes, on a nice spring morning, it looked like a veritable train of bikes, as they ran single file in the bike lane alongside the rush hour traffic on Jefferson. But if you’re running late, as Jaiya often did, the bike lane would likely be empty.
Charlie, who lives across the street, would often drive his two kids to school. Lakewood was only three-quarters of a mile away, but Charlie’s kids were younger. Seeing Charlie depart before she did always lit a fire under Jaiya, and she’d take off down the road following his big green truck, her braids bouncing from underneath her helmet.
This morning, I can hear the lawnmowers in my otherwise quiet house. I take my coffee and walk past the laundry room to the garage. I pull open the door, step down into the garage, and let the door shut firmly behind me. I am surrounded by darkness. The air is still and smells slightly musty, reminiscent of a mausoleum. I stand there for a moment, alone.
What am I doing here?
My hand finds and depresses the button to open the garage door. At the far end of the garage, the 2-bay door creaks open and sunlight floods the once-darkened tomb. Like a moth to a flame, I walk toward the light, past her bike lying in the space her mother used to park her car when she lived here. The crumpled bike frame and bent wheels remain where they were placed that June morning two years ago. The police said the SUV driver had been distracted, something about a cell phone and typing. I have never been clear on whether the distraction was the reason the SUV was driving in the bike line or the reason it was going 50 in a 30-mph zone.
I don’t go out much anymore. But when I do, I can’t bear to drive on Jefferson. The cars ignore the posted speed limit and rush through the stop signs. The 6-foot-long scar scraped into the bike lane’s asphalt still forces kids to swerve to either side of it, even two years later.
I step out onto my driveway and into the bright morning sunlight. The air is crisp, but the sun is warm on my skin. My eyes are not used to the light, and so I squint. Then I see Jaiya riding her bike down the street, going to school. I shout “Jaiya, I love you!” knowing it will embarrass her.
But it is not Jaiya on the bike. My eyes have adjusted to the light, and I can now see it is Jade, Charlie’s daughter. She is now 2 years older and in the fifth grade. Jade stops her bike and turns around to look at me. I can see the confused look on her face.
I wave. She stares at me. I retreat to the garage and close the door. I used to love spring.
Jon Roth is new to the writing game. He is fascinated with the human condition and how things can go wrong. His short stories blend emotion, humor, and horror and usually have a twist ending. When not writing, he enjoys listening to punk rock music, running, and reading, but he’s usually just driving his kids somewhere. Jon lives in California with his wife and two children.