Dear Jesse,

Remember when we would run around my yard? I would sing at the top of my lungs, and end up falling down... which inevitably led to skinned knees and palms, and me crying to my mother. I went through a lot of band aids, neosporin, and "kiss-make-it-better"s.

I'm not sure where you are now, after all of these years. It's been at least a decade since I saw you last. You're probably under my parents' porch somewhere, sun-bleached, rusty, and (almost) forgotten.

Something about being back at my parents' house for the summer made me think of training wheels. It's funny because I haven't needed training wheels since elementary school. But while I was cleaning my crappy purple big-kid bike, I couldn't help but wish that I had my first set of wheels back.

I remember how safe riding felt with you. I could coast down the hill in my driveway, or ride in the town parade, or race down Route 104 with your little wheels behind me, protecting me.

I wish I could find my way back to carefree skort-wearing.

I wish I could wear my hair in high pigtails with wire ribbon.

I wish popsicles still had their own space in my food pyramid.

I wish I could run around with my bike pretending I was riding a horse.

But I'm eighteen, almost nineteen. I finished my first year at university. I have a job, and a life, and I don't share a room with my brother anymore.

It's been ages since I pretended that my bike was a pegasus or a unicorn or any other manner of four legged beast for that matter. But, Jesse, I want to take a moment to thank you.

Thank you for teaching me how to ride.

Thank you for holding me upright.

Thank you for bearing my Barbie stickers and pink handlebar tassels.

Thank you for carrying me as far as my prepubescent legs would take me.

Thank you for being my training wheels.

P.S. I'm sorry for all the times I wished you were a horse.