I took him to French Pond

For our 15th wedding anniversary

When I was eight, riding a road bike down a rocky dirt trail in the hills of Malibu, I fell—hard. My dad describes it as one of the most harrowing moments of his life, watching me fly head-first over the handle bars. It was the first time I broke my nose. It was terrifying.

It’s August 1st. David and I are riding our bikes to French Pond, named for the fact that if you didn’t know you were in Littleton, Colorado you could just as easily believe you were nestled in a secluded French countryside.

I’m terrified because my cells remember the feeling of loose gravel under tires. “Babe, those aren’t road tires. You’re good.” He assures me.

Even if I fall, I’m okay. Even if I fall, I’ll be okay. On repeat. I barely believe it.

I don’t enjoy doing things that increase my risk of falling, or abrasions. I imagine how the impact would obliterate the collagen fibers protecting my spinal cord, already worn from chemo, excess body weight, poor body mechanics, etc. Paralyzed. If I fall I become disabled. If I fall I have scratches and look dumb.

Nobody likes scratches or foolery.

We reach the beach, after riding through bramble and brook. I get naked immediately and jump into the water. “It’s perfect!” I yell to shore.

He yells for me to remove my watch before jumping into the water, to protect the leather band, but it’s too late. “Babe! It’s going to get and stay very wet! I’m a mermaid!” I yell to shore.

For our anniversary he bought me a very nice watch and a bike rack. We technically bought each other the bike rack (so we could take a maiden trek on this very day, to this very pond—which was my idea—happy anniversary!) but he ordered it, picked it up, and installed it.

He also packed the card I made for him, my favorite purple towel, and white-peach-flavored sparkling water. “You fit all that in your back pack!? Thanks babe!”

I disappear into the deep.

Depths feel less scary than falls. I feel a sense of control when I descend that I don’t feel when I tumble.

His erection reminds me I still got it, and it disappears immediately upon entry to pond. He jumps in after me.

“I didn’t buy you a Shinola, but I did set you free.” I smile.

“Sounds like a good deal to me.” We kiss. “I mean it when I tell you that you’re the best gift I’ve ever received. You bring my life so much love and wonder.”

Phew.

When we return to the car there is a much younger couple huffing and puffing after a trail run.

Their heads were wet, too. They dove.

They were smiling too, they must’ve kissed.

They’re as tan as we are. Maybe they do this often, adventure under the intense Colorado sun.

Blinded.

Sweaty.

So young. I wonder how willing they are to act a fool. To fall, to collapse and lie disabled in the presence of the truest thing we have—Love. Open skies. Cool, refreshing waters. The presence of another heart you’ve allowed and chosen to ruin you. Hold you. Heal you. Test you. Enrage and embolden and enlighten you.

I’ve been afraid of falling since I was a young girl. Afraid of feeling in a world full of pediatric brain cancer, divorce, infidelity, abandonment, neglect, addiction, abuse, etc. Paralyzed.

I barely believe it, but I am okay. I’m going to be okay. I have no control over how it all unfolds, but I trust the Goodhardgood One in charge of the laundry.

I trust my heart, finally. For now.

I trust the man driving me home. The one for which I’ve fallen head over heels.