Spinning Wheels

“Did you bring the rope?” I ask Jane as I grab my skateboard. My friend loops the twine behind her bike seat and tosses it to me. She jumps on her bike while I hop on my board and grab the rope. Skateboard-surfing behind Jane is my favorite activity. I roll free as my ponytail swings—royal blue striped Adidas anchor my balance. It’s the summer before sixth grade and I know nothing about death.

When I come inside, my brother, Steve, sits at the top of the stairs in a collared tennis shirt and shorts. He’s upset because he can’t get ahold of his friend Robbie. They were supposed to play tennis.

Our family and Robbie’s family are good friends. During the winter, we race toboggans down their steep backyard. We put pillows on the roof of the car and lie back to watch 4th of July fireworks. We travel together and see exhibits featuring King Tut.

So, Robbie is my friend too.

The phone rings. Mom’s face tightens as she hangs up. Looking up at Steve from the bottom of the stairs, she says, “Robbie has been in an accident on his bike.”

“Is he in the hospital? I want to go see him!” Steve’s voice waivers.

Mom, remaining steady, says, “Let’s wait. We need to get more information, okay?”

Robbie died. He left on his bike, and he’ll never come back. I don’t understand this vacancy. The last time I saw him, we shared salty popcorn from a big bucket at the movies.

In my sixth-grade year, death introduced himself. But I don’t want to know him.

I’d never met this type of loss. Our dog Gus ran away for a while, and I was afraid something horrible might happen. But Gus came back. I’d lost hats and mittens before, but it didn’t matter. When I lost a boot in a giant snow mound, that boot appeared in the spring.

But Robbie? This loss saturates the air with a heavy sadness—a gummy humidity clings to us inside and out. Mom sits next to me on the couch, closer than usual, and her bright smile fades.

Days later, I grab my skateboard and drop it on the concrete driveway. When I jump on that banana-yellow board, the wheels rumble and propel me forward.

“Jenny!” I stop and see Dad on the stoop. “Be very careful.”

The weight of loss infiltrates our home, changes the tone in his voice, and clouds his eyes. My wheels don’t roll as freely; the dense air doesn’t allow the same glide. I head inside.

“Hey, Dad. You want to play a game?” I toss a floor pillow down onto the shag carpet by his feet in the family room.

Grief frames the edges around his eyes, but his face softens at my request. I think he’s happy we’re in the same room, and I am safe and sheltered in his sight. For now, my skateboard is tucked away, and I miss Robbie. I miss the way Robbie’s family was together and whole.

Time moves slowly forward, and I see dark shadows cast by loss. But like closed curtains, rays of light sneak through cracks as everyone gathers to offer love and support to Robbie’s family. I’m too young to know how unbearable losses constrict us beyond comprehension, and simultaneously expand our capacity for compassion.

My eleven-year-old world experienced a shift on the day Robbie died. In the years since, I’ve considered it a loss of innocence. But maybe we don’t lose our innocence. Maybe we gain experiences heavy enough to compress us from young to not-as-young.

I thought I’d understand this better when I was older. This robbery of life. But I’m older and I don’t. I will forever wish that Robbie’s wheels kept spinning.

But I understand that in the aftermath of a crisis, people come together. My six-grade eyes saw adults shed tears, offer hugs, congregate, and bring food, flowers, love, and support. Faced with enormous loss, we offer small comfort. It’ll never be enough. But those wheels of comfort are all that remain to move us forward.