Rebekah McDowell

I drove past the younger girl who was living with these fond memories.

While driving in my car today, I passed a little girl riding her bike with training wheels on. She was too scared to learn how without them, so she ended up being one of the last ones in her class to do so. She was riding down the hill in our neighborhood, but she was too scared to go at full speed. She held on the whole way down.

She had shoulder-length hair that was such a light brown it was almost dirty blonde. She was wearing a green and blue dress and white rain boots covered in multi-colored polka dots. She was the shortest one in her class, and she would stay that way for a long time. She had the brightest blue eyes that you could see from a mile away, and a bright smile to match, with just one dimple on her left cheek. 

As I passed her, we made eye contact. When our eyes met, there was a slight familiarity there. We recognized each other—but barely. When I looked into her eyes, I could see the spark brighter than ever. She had never known any hurt, and I wished I could warn her of the future. As she looked into my eyes, she wore an expression that just barely showed recognition. All she recognized was the dimple on my left cheek, and my bright blue eyes, still with that spark, but she had to look a little harder to find it. She didn’t recognize the solid black leggings or the gray sweatshirt. She didn’t recognize my Uggs, and she didn’t recognize my dark brown hair.

As I passed her, I considered stopping to talk. I wanted to tell her that she would make some of the best friends she’s ever had. I wanted to tell her that life was going to take her to so many places, but it was all going to end up okay. 

I wanted to tell her about how she was going to grow apart from her preschool best friend, and about how that friend would pop back into her life on a random Thursday. I wanted to tell her how her best friend in elementary school would move away in third grade, and how she wasn’t going to see her again years later. I wanted to tell her that it was going to take a while to find a good best friend, but that she was going to find a few that would change her life. 

I ended up breaking the eye contact. I knew that I couldn’t stop and tell her what life was going to be like. I knew that life was going to make her who she was going to be.

The other day, I drove past a little girl riding her bike with training wheels still on. Although she barely recognized me, I recognized her. I wanted to stop, but I didn’t. I didn’t stop because I knew it was all going to be okay.