We live in a brick house in a quiet neighborhood in Wilmington, Delaware. Our house, 110 South Road, sits on a hilly street lined with sycamore trees.
I am six. We are out biking; me and my brothers, and Dad. I am straining to climb the hill on my blue bike, about to give in to the hill when Dad swoops up from behind, on his old blue Raleigh, and effortlessly pushes me up to the driveway. I can feel the palm of his hand, strong, in the middle of my small girl back.
I am flying.