The Bicycle at the Beginning of Time

AISH ^ | 2/29/2004 | Sarah Shapiro

[yonif]

For my grandson's third birthday, I just couldn't be outdone.

Except for having to share the child, being a grandmother is a piece of cake. On this occasion, it was birthday cake, for Binyamin's third birthday.

I was never one for running and jumping and working, but all those years when my children were small, that's precisely what I had to do, without end. These days, I sleep through the night, and for this party, I didn't have to clean and bake and organize. All I had to do was show up, with a present to buy me his love, love that would stay put.

Many dear friends and relations -- look deeply into those beautiful dark eyes and you know they're shoppers -- would also be there, bearing gifts.

For Binyamin's third birthday, I just couldn't be outdone. * * *

It was a gorgeous contraption, from a store in downtown Jerusalem. Blue-green and shiny, with training wheels and a bell. In the careful selection of a surefire gift, one that would hit the jackpot, I invested money, time, and great expectations.

In the taxi on the way over to my daughter's house, I was envisioning the moment of presentation. I would place it before him. He'd look up at me with amazement, gratitude, joy and astonishment. He'd always remember that it was I, GaGa, who had given him his first real bike. * * *

What blessed confusion! Such a big crowd! Friends and relations in party hats! Close relatives! Distant relatives! People big and small, and music playing! Somebody's hands snatched the bike from mine and hid it in a back room, along with all the other presents.

Bagels and quiches, salads and speeches. Halfway through his father's execution of the first haircut -- long before the cake and ice-cream and presentation of the presents -- Binyamin vanished. From our perch on the couch at the far side of the living room, through all the commotion, my husband and I picked up the sound of his crying somewhere else in the house. Lucky for me, friends and relations had everything under control, so I remained seated. Over and behind and beneath and through the music and the noise, the crying continued. Friends and relations were taking care of everything, so I remained seated.

People were waiting for Binyamin to come back for the rest of his haircut. He'd been burned out by the public spectacle. Friends and relations were taking care of everything, so...

All of a sudden -- something from nothing! -- Binyamin materialized out of nowhere into the party's midst, with an expectant look on his face and a head half-covered with his wild yellow curls, and all sorts of friends and relations were hurrying into the living room holding the bicycle aloft. Voices sang merrily, "Look what GaGa gave you for your birthday!" as it was set down before me.

Binyamin, instantaneously enchanted, giving me nary a glance, was already trying to get on the bike.

My husband's eyes met mine.

I can only guess what expression was on my face at that moment, but whatever it was, gorgeous bouquets of apology started blooming before me in a flash, in such a profusion of kindness, I wanted to sink into the carpet. "He got so tired, so we told him about the bike and said he could sit on it for the rest of the haircut. Who gave you the bike, Binyamin?"

Binyamin gave no indication of hearing the question. He was entirely consumed by bliss.

"Binyamin, what do you say to GaGa?"

"You feel so bad, I'm so sorry! He knows it's from you, though, we told him! Binyamin, you know who gave you the bike. Who gave you the bike?"

"Binyamin, say thank you to GaGa."

But he couldn't. He was in another world. * * *

There are times I'd really rather not know the truth about myself -- much less have others know it. Who was the child here? A grandmother is someone who, by definition, should at least have developed enough unselfishness and maturity in the course of a lifetime to place the happiness of her grandchild above her own. Yet in truth, it made no difference to me that he loved the bike, that it had made the haircut possible -- not to mention the continuation of the party -- no difference that I'd hit the jackpot. What I really wanted -- and couldn't manage to conceal -- was for Binyamin to know, in his heart, not just technically, that it was I who had given him the bike. Now I would never present him with the bike, as I'd so vividly envisioned, and he would never, ever look up at me, the one who'd granted him his heart's desire, with amazement, joy and gratitude.

The moment for all that had slipped irretrievably by, into oblivion.

I tried to enjoy myself, then tried faking it, but for me, the party had fallen flat. * * *

It was there on that dead end, after the candles' three flames had been snuffed out and darkness was upon the face of the earth, that someone sat down beside me. I looked up. It was one of my daughters. In an undertone, she said:

"Mommy, I know you feel bad but you have to know that this pain belongs to you. Way back at the beginning of time when God created the world, it was part of His plan that one day there would be this bicycle, this little green bicycle, and that you would get it for Binyamin for his third birthday. But for some reason we'll never know, God knew you couldn't be the one to give the bicycle to Binyamin. Someone else would have that pleasure."

They say the universe is expanding, that it's expanding fast. All at once, I was expanding the same way, into a happiness larger than my own, vastly larger than my own. I cut myself a piece of cake, cut a few pieces for friends and relations, and partook of a bigger love, an endless love, the love that stays put.

This article originally appeared in the Jewish Observer.

Author Biography:
Sarah Shapiro is the author of Growing With My Children: A Jewish Mother’s Diary; Don’t You Know It’s a Perfect World?; the Our Lives anthologies; and most recently "A Gift Passed Along: A Woman Looks at the World Around Her," published recently by Artscroll. She writes regularly for publications in Israel and the United States, and teaches writing workshops in Jerusalem.

[texasflower]

Nice story.