Livora Gracely

Big happiness can begin with a very small ride.

Mia pulled her bicycle through the garden gate. The bicycle came willingly. Her orange scarf had other arrangements.

Its loose end had hooked itself around a twig. Mia tugged once, looked over her shoulder, and went back to unfasten it. By the time everything had reached the pavement, her mother was standing in the doorway with a slice of toast.

“Where are you going?”

“The end of the road.”

Her mother looked at the basket of daisies, the striped socks, and the scarf now spread across half the gate.

“Do you need all that?”

Mia checked the basket. One daisy had slipped beneath another.

“Yes.”

Departure

She was five, and preparations had taken eleven minutes. Most of that had involved persuading the daisies to face forward. They were flowers, but this was no reason to travel carelessly.

Mia climbed onto the yellow-green bicycle, settled both hands on the green handlebars, and pushed down on a pedal. The front wheel answered with squeak, squeak, squeak—an objection she chose to overlook.

Behind her, the orange scarf lifted into the morning air. It billowed past the basket, brushed a hedge, and startled a sparrow into leaving a perfectly good branch. Mia kept pedaling. The sparrow could arrange its own expedition.

At Mrs. Tan’s blue mailbox, she slowed. She had passed it many times beside her mother, usually while someone was discussing groceries. Today she stopped long enough to inspect the small silver flap.

There was a snail beneath it.

Mrs. Tan was receiving visitors.

Along the Road

Beyond the mailbox, the pavement cracked into three uneven lines. Mia steered left, then right, then left again, with the concentration of someone navigating a mountain pass. The basket tilted. She steadied it with one hand and returned that hand to the handlebars.

A delivery van rumbled past, carrying the warm smell of bread from the bakery. Mia stopped pedaling and breathed in. For several seconds, the bicycle rolled on without assistance.

At the corner, she put one foot on the ground.

The road continued past the little shop and beneath trees whose tops she could see from her bedroom. From here, their trunks were hidden around the bend. A bicycle bell rang somewhere beyond them.

Mia lifted her foot toward the pedal, then set it down again. Her fingers stayed curled around the green grips. Behind her, the enormous scarf settled against the seat.

She looked back. Her mother was still by the gate, finishing the toast.

The Corner

Mia turned the bicycle around. One daisy tipped sideways during the maneuver, and she paused to tuck it upright before setting off.

The wheel squeaked all the way home.

“I’m back!”

Her mother put down her plate. “How far did you go?”

“To the end.”

From the gate, her mother could still see the corner. She looked toward it, then back at Mia, who was already explaining the snail, the cracked pavement, and the place where the whole road smelled of bread.

In the kitchen, her mother pulled out a chair.

“Start with the snail.”

Tomorrow

Mia carried the basket inside, leaving the scarf draped over the hedge beside the bicycle. At the kitchen table, she chose one slightly crushed daisy and placed it next to her mother’s plate.

“The road keeps going,” she said.

“I know.”

Mia smoothed a bent petal with her fingertip. Then she looked through the open door at the bicycle.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “the end is farther.”

Outside, the scarf slipped lower into the hedge. A sparrow landed on its orange folds.

Its expedition had also gone well.