Never Learned to Ride
by Mary McCarthy
Because one summer afternoon
the peace was broken
by a crash
followed by the wail of sirens
police and ambulance
already too late
keeping the crowd back
still close enough to see
white tennis shoes
and red blood
in the gutter —
Dad counting heads
making sure
we were all here
standing just outside
the front door
staring at the small
details of death
blood and white tennis shoes
and a broken bike
all we could see
of the collision
between our paperboy
and the truck turning the corner
too fast to stop —
So Mama saw to it
none of us ever
owned a bike
or learned to ride
not even something
we could imagine asking for
as long as anyone remembered
that unquiet afternoon
AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: The event described in the poem had quite an effect on all of us—I remember my dad counting heads—after all, we all wore tennis shoes, and that’s what he saw, tennis shoes and blood. Although we fought Mama’s overprotectiveness like any kids would, the bike-riding thing was something we didn’t question. The photo is of mom, dad, and all seven of us. I am in the far left, probably about 13 years old here.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Mama always thought she could protect us, even at the same time she knew she couldn’t. Her efforts to keep us out of danger went unappreciated, and were the first things we had to rebel against — although in this particular instance it worked — I think only one of my sisters and brothers ever learned to ride a bike, and that was as an adult.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mary McCarthy lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her husband and her chocolate lab — who make sure she remembers how to enjoy each day, whatever it may bring. Always a writer, she spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse — and now devotes her energies to poetry and art.
Silver Birch Press 
I always admire your work, Mary!Nicely done, my friend!Keep it up!
Thank you, Sofia!! I’m glad you liked it!
Are you in the third row, behind your mom?
Like this one a lot.
Dear Robbi–yep, that’s me. this is a photo of a photo so it’s blurry, but everyone’s there. It’s only rereading this here and now I realize I didn’t say that the paperboy was actually killed in this accident. Even after all these years it’s something hard to talk about!
Very powerful and vivid. I can imagine the shock and your father’s fear. Nicely written.
Thank you!–yes, shock and fear–and still reverberates now–as I noted in reply above, I just realized on rereading that I left the heart of this tragedy unspoken–the paperboy was killed.
I think that was clear in the suggestion that the emergency team arrived too late…part of the poignancy of the poem.
To clarify–the poem mentions “the small details of death”–so I do convey what happened-but in a peripheral/indirect way–which is also I think what happens in many traumatic situations–small peripheral details appear huge and are what we focus on, because it is almost unbearable to face what is happening directly and head-on.
Thank you marsmyst– you are right– the information is there, but obliquely rather than as bold statement. It was a terrible event to witness, maybe more terrible because we didn’t see it centrally, but in the surrounding details–none of us saw the crash, or the body–just the shoes, the blood, the crowd, the police and ambulence..
Thank you for that awesome life experience many can relate to…I pray you keep on keeping on with sharing your awesome talent with the world! I’m so looking forward to more!
Thanks Linda! I appreciate your reading!