You ever have one of those flashbacks that just show up outta nowhere and ruin your peace? That’s me, remembering the day my grandma let me fall in a rosebush like it was part of my life lessons.
I couldn’t tell you the exact age I was—somewhere around eight, but built like I was thirteen because I’ve always been the family’s gentle giant. Picture it: country dirt road in Fayette, Mississippi. Chickens in the yard, a radio playing the blues somewhere in the background, and every grown person sitting outside doing what country folks do best—watching other people’s business.
Now, I didn’t know how to ride a bike yet, but that didn’t stop me from trying. My grandma had that “you’ll learn today” kind of patience. She gave me a little push, said, “Keep pedaling, baby!” and went right back to talking like she hadn’t just released a baby giraffe into the wild.
I started off strong, too—wind in my hair, wheels wobbling, the whole “look, I’m doing it!” moment. Then I started circling the yard. First circle, I was proud. Third circle, I was confident. By the ninth circle, I was dizzy as hell but too determined to quit. My grandma kept yelling, “You got it!” but not once did she notice I was drifting toward that rosebush like a magnet to misery.
And then it happened. The handlebar jerked, my left leg betrayed me, and my destiny landed square in a bush that looked delicate from afar but fought like a pack of porcupines up close. I swear those thorns were plotting on me—they grabbed my shorts, my shirt, my dignity, everything.
I remember the silence afterward. Just pure country air and my little breath wheezing through the pain. Then came Grandma’s voice:
“Girl, what are you doing in those roses?”
Like I intentionally dove in there for fun.
She didn’t run, either. She strolled over, laughing so hard she could barely pull me out. My cousins were doubled over, crying from laughter while I was crying from the thorns. Somebody yelled, “She look like a rose bush herself!” and that just sent them all over the edge.
The only thing bruised worse than my legs was my pride. Grandma finally dusted me off and said, “See, now you know how not to ride a bike.”
So no, I don’t remember what age I was. But I remember the sting, the laughter, and the dirt road that saw the whole thing go down. Fayette might forget a lot, but it never forgets who fell in the rosebush that summer.
