Carlile

“Carlile! Get back in here this instant!” A mom calls, her son running out the backdoor and toward his bike.

A small blue helmet rests on one of the handlebars, and he quickly slides it off and clips it onto his head, laughing as he hops onto the black bicycle seat. He shoves back the kickstand and his small feet peddle vigorously, forcing the partially deflated tires to tread through the soggy grass of a humid evening. Carlile bikes down the narrow path between the side of his house and the neighbor’s fenced off backyard, working his way onto the driveway and into the street. There he turns right and begins to excitedly bike against the asphalt and away from home.

“Dinner is almost ready, young man! If you want to eat supper you best come back soon!”

The mother shakes her head, turning back to a pot on the stove and stirring the beans that are cooking within.

“That boy is going to be the death of me,” she grumbles, an exhausted breath escaping her lips.

She turns off the stove and collects two plates from the cupboards, taking a moment to look around. Everything about her home is aged, herself included. The cupboards are chipped at the corners, the images on her antique china plates are faded, and the ceiling always seems to sag each summer due to the heat.

Carlile has never seemed to care though. No, not one bit. That boy has never once complained about the house, nor the food, nor how much his mother has to work. All he cares about is riding his bike, having his artwork pinned to the fridge, and asking when his daddy’s coming home. The mother wishes she knew how to answer the latter, but there’s no good way to tell a child their daddy’s dead; killed in a foreign country long before the little boy was even born. She tells Carlile his daddy’s on vacation instead. It’s easier for the both of them that way.

She just wishes Carlile didn’t mention him as much.

With the boy on her mind, the mother pushes back the screen door to the backyard and wanders through the small passageway, stepping into the street.

“Carlile, if you don’t get back here this instant supper’ll get cold!”

As if on cue, Carlile comes pedaling down the street to her right, laughing and smiling as he makes his way home.

“Look ‘ma!” He calls, “I can ride with my eyes closed!”

She can’t see his eyes from where she is, but she steps away from the curb. “Carlile…”

The words catch in her throat as she hears an engine to the left, loud and fervent as machinery is pushed to its limits. She rushes out into the street, shoving her son ahead of her and off his bike, out of the way.

And right before the car hits, a single thought runs through her mind.

That boy is going to be the death of me.

Author's Note

A short piece I did a long while ago, found it while looking through my files.