Saturday, Grandpa pumps up the tires on the kid's bike and raises the seat about three feet. She takes it out, makes two turns on the concrete, tests the brakes once, and rides away for the woods. I walk behind to carry her drink and push on the long hills and lead the way past scary boys, but when she goes, she goes and I cannot catch her.
In the park on the other side of the woods, she spins and spins round the same circle. I watch from a seat in the middle and nod my head in approval at each lap.
She stops once and calls me over to see something on the path, a fuzzy caterpillar, first of the year. It curls into a ball when I pick it up. We put it in a safe place away from the path but it stays curled as if it has looked down and seen how it goes.
On the way home, I lose the kid. We meet at the door and we ask each other where we have been.