Me and a Memory

There is an old scar on the corner of my forehead, a mark that goes back many years, back to when I was a six-year-old child.

One summer day, my father surprised his eldest son with a beautiful, big bicycle. My brother, who was passionate about football and bicycles, had finally achieved one of his greatest dreams.

Like all siblings in those days, we celebrated the arrival of that beautiful bicycle into our family. We were all overjoyed to have it in our small home.

Late one night, just before bedtime, my brother promised my sister and me that one day, he would take us for a ride on his bicycle. That night, I dreamt of stars spinning around me until morning.

The next day, I felt different – prouder. Everyone in the neighborhood had to know that I was the sister of the boy who had a bicycle, and that one day, he would take me for a ride too.

Every afternoon, my sister and I would sit in front of that bicycle with indescribable curiosity, staring at it, lost in dreams.

And then, finally, the long-awaited day arrived. My sister and I could barely contain our excitement, proudly boasting about it to the neighborhood girls.

My older sister went first. My brother told her to sit in the back seat and hold on tightly. I may never be able to describe the pure joy I felt that day: my eyes truly sparkled with happiness, and a deep smile was carved onto my lips. I clapped, cheered, and let the whole world know how happy I was.

I will never forget that day.

Then it was my turn.

Like a flight attendant, my brother, tireless and proud, repeated all the instructions he had given my sister. I climbed on.

For a moment, I felt like a girl in Wonderland — a green and dreamy land, where I rode a giant pink unicorn that could fly. My heart was racing, my laughter turning into excited screams.

I held on tightly to my brother, and we weren’t just riding a bicycle; we were soaring.

We reached the end of our dusty alley, and my brother had to turn around to take us back into the dead-end street. Passersby watched us.

My brother tried to turn, and then the unexpected happened.

Suddenly, the bicycle tilted, and I fell onto the ground, covered in dust and small stones. The bicycle landed on me, and my brother landed on the bicycle.

Years have passed since that day, and this memory — like a beautiful scene from an unforgettable film — has remained engraved in both my mind and my heart.

My brother immediately got up and lifted the bicycle off me. He helped me stand up.

“Did it hurt?”

 “No, I’m fine!”

 “Let me dust off your clothes.”

 “It’s okay, leave it.”

 “Pick up the rock from your forehead.”

I lifted the rock, and warm blood began painting my face.

I have always been afraid of blood, and when I saw it, I screamed and cried, running straight home. I cried as the corner of my forehead split open.

The scar is still there, a small mark that holds a story within it.

My mother, bound by the patriarchal rules of those days and determined to protect her eldest son, made me promise to tell my father that I had fallen on my own, without mentioning my brother’s name.