The Girl that Grew

I remember when you used to be a bicycle. Your steel frame was slathered in a cheap red paint, even though it was your least favourite colour (it reminded you of the cow’s blood in a documentary they made you watch in Biology, that September morning). You were unable to move unless there was somebody gripping your handlebars, guiding you around corners and up mountainous slopes. You liked the way that it felt to be held tightly, to be needed. One day, a boy decided to take you for a spin around the city, and this excited you very much. You had only ever ridden through the quiet streets of the suburbs, with their mechanical driveways and sturdy walnut trees. The city was new, full of vibrant flashing movement, smoke billowing in magnificent clouds. But it was also dangerous. You noticed that there were hundreds of larger, more impressive versions of yourself, with four wheels instead of two, and oily bonnets that winked as you rode by. The boy noticed too. He started to grow careless when handling your delicate gears, riding fast on busy roads, and yanking your handlebars too violently, until one day when he slammed on the breaks. It was you who went flying into a scrap-heap full of rusted metal, your red coat peeling away. Opposite from you was an old, browning refrigerator with a missing door.

I remember when you used to be a car. You would glide down the stretching motorways, watching the shimmering horizon with its finger-painted skyline of golden light, and smile. It felt nice to have an interior, four seats protected from the harsh winds and spitting skies. You were able to lock your doors, and stand without having to lean on anything. You had an ear-splitting horn instead of a bell, that could shout over the roaring noise of traffic. No longer were you spindly and powerless; you were a machine. You would explore the winding lanes of the countryside, following your sat-nav, the dizzying terrains lined with climbing pine trees, while your speakers vibrated with the thumping guitar of Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. However, after a while, the shuttling sights faded from your attention, the rumbling of your engine became invisible, because you realised that, in all of that time, you hadn’t left the ground.

Now, you are a hot air balloon. A friend to nature, you float higher and higher each day, surrounded by hand-crafted clouds and the stretching wings of eagles. You have a panoramic view of velvet oceans, and a tiled kitchen-floor of yellow fields, spotted with smiling cows. Some days, you pass over cities painted by Mondrian, and find that they are not as scary when you are so high above them. You soar by the suburban neighbourhood where you used to totter down cul-de-sacs, and find yourself swelling at the memory of rubber tires skidding on the concrete. Of course, that only sends you higher. Nowadays, you’re selective about who you allow into your wicker basket, because now that you’re able to fly by yourself, people are not necessities. Your source of life is the small fire that burns at your centre. It is constant and it radiates warmth. Occasionally, she flickers, but she continues to burn, crackling and humming in a serene roar, that almost bares resemblance to the engine of a car.