The text from my 13-year old son came in while I was heading home on a bus, an aggravating alternative to the subway, which had major delays.
“Was going downhill and shifted the wrong way.”
Stephen has been biking a lot lately, and his current routine is to head to Central Park, do a few circuits, and ride home. When the weather is good, he often logs 15-20 miles in a day.
“You okay?” I texted back. The good news was that whatever had happened, he was functional enough to text me. Not only that, he had bothered to text. That was far better than a call from the police saying he was on his way to the emergency room. I could be thankful for that.
I received a series of photos showing various cuts and scrapes in reply. They looked deep and painful. Then again, nothing but skin was broken. I could be thankful for that, too.
I asked my son where he was, and it turned out he was only half a mile from where I was on the bus. Since I hardly ever take the bus, and he’s usually much further downtown, the chances of this happening were extremely small. I got off and walked to meet him, sending up a short thank-you to God that the subways had been stalled.
Stephen was limping and sore and covered in dirt, but mostly he was shaken up and glad to see me. He’d flipped off his bike on Broadway, and narrowly missed being hit by a car (or three). My heart flipped a bit when I heard that, but I managed to save my commentary for a time when his brain wasn’t scrambled with adrenaline.
We walked the mile and a half home slowly, but with great thanksgiving.