The Bicycle

I don't remember every bicycle I've had in my life.

I grew up in a suburb where my parents' backyard opened straight onto a cycling path, bordered by fields that are now swallowed up by the industrial sprawl of the town.

Last week was finally a real spring day here in Quebec. Mid-April, and we hadn't had one yet. Everyone was outside, blinking and smiling into the light after months of craving it.

Our daughter just started cycling. She chose the pinkest bicycle she could find with pink, purple and blue pompoms on each handle. She figured it out quickly, so we took her to a big park by the river. My husband and I walked behind her, hand in hand, watching her ride with the kind of pride only parents can feel that deeply.

And then it hit me. Like a loud, bright flash in the middle of my usual sea of thoughts.

I said out loud: ‘‘I don't remember every bicycle I've had. But there is one I remember. My gradient purple bicycle.’’

My dad was handy. Creative. Both my parents were the youngest in their families, and I think that taught him something — the importance of making things your own, even when they weren't new to begin with.

I don't remember every detail of that bike now that I'm 36. But I remember this: he customized it for me. Painted it in a gradient purple. Made it feel like mine — because he wanted to.

I was already happy to have a bicycle. But he took it further. It was no longer a bicycle I'd ride with my neighbour Mylène and my older sister. It was my bicycle. And I was proud of it.

As I told my husband this, my voice caught a little. He noticed.

When I talk about my dad, there's always something in my tone. He's been gone for 18 years now, and he feels further away in my memories with every year that passes.

But this one came back clearly, strongly. All at once.

I don't think it was really about the bicycle.

It's just that now, as a parent, I see things differently. I look back at my own childhood and notice the quiet gestures — the ones that were never meant to be grand and public. The painted bike. The effort no one asked for. The love that didn't announce itself.

The things that weren't meant to be remembered.

But stayed anyway — like proof, somewhere deep down, that I was really loved.