Little feet pedal as fast as they can up the road ahead of me.
I hold my breath, praying a car doesn’t come.
Keeping the urge to run after her and carry her the rest of the way to the house to myself.
We stop every few minutes to pick a flower, write in the dirt, or find a treasure.
She’s five now.
There are scrapes and scratches, marks and band-aids, tears and hugs.
Racing and running, bumps on the head, and lots of bruises.
But she’s always back up a few minutes later.
Because she’s five and five-year olds don’t have time to stop.