I spotted the rusty gem the minute I entered the musty antique shop. I was killing time while my daughter danced ballet in a studio nearby.
"They don't make 'em like that anymore," the shopkeeper said of the charming tricycle from the 1950s.
It was a rich shade of blue, with scratches etched deeply into its metal handle bars. The knobs that ease a child's anxious grasp were missing and the tires turned in slightly, as if a child had jumped off, seeking a more exciting adventure. I was captivated by this gentle mode of transportation, drawn to the stories it held secret.
Who'd first set its miniature wheels in motion? How many generations had celebrated freedom perched upon its tiny seat?
I thought about my 9-year-old son, Eric, whose cerebral palsy requires use of a different set of wheels: a wheelchair. He cannot sit up without firm support, yet in my mind, I envisioned him pedaling this blue trike, the wind tousling his silky hair.
In my waking dream, Eric was King of the Asphalt Jungle. We celebrated with an orange Popsicle, a sticky treat melting quickly in the springtime breeze.
Voices nearby startled me back to reality.
I stared at the tricycle with its $35 price tag. But this time, I saw only another blank page in the photo album of my son's life -- another lost rite of passage.
As an elderly couple admired the blue tricycle, I continued my introspection, recalling a summer adventure of one year ago. Determined to grant my son a taste of wheeled freedom, I'd released my protective grip on his chair and run beside him, against his father's wishes.
I should've held on.
I watched in horror as a raised section of sidewalk refused to budge. My son's lightweight wheelchair flipped, resulting in a nasty bump on his forehead. The scrapes on his tender hands were proof of enough motor ability to reach out protectively in fear.
"How could I have let this happen?" I demanded of myself as Eric hit face first on the concrete, protected only by the stiff brim of a Michigan State University baseball cap.
I should never have set him free.
I was fostering the guilt so instinctive to parents of special-needs children. In reality, I could never have reacted in time to stop the accident. Preventing normal childhood injuries means denying Eric his brief moments of physical freedom.
It's a rough tradeoff.
After we realized that he was OK, Eric's sister and I bragged about his long-awaited skinned knees and bruised ego. He liked our explanation. It made him feel like the other kids. The stubborn wound impressed his able-bodied school buddies.
"You're one tough guy," a classmate marveled.
The voice of the shop owner startled me back to reality. "I'll give you a great deal on that bike," he said.
"Thanks, but I want to think about it," I replied, heading for the door. I was tempted to buy the tricycle and grant it an honored spot in my basement.
Then I could imagine what might have been.
As I walked out of the shop empty handed, the fragrant springtime breeze soothed the sting of what would never be.
I smiled at the young dancers waiting for rides home. They were long and lean, filled with youthful promise and easy dreams.
As I hopped into my shiny new SUV with its oversized tires, I was surprisingly content without the blue tricycle in my hands. And at peace with my son's special place in my life.
Judy Winter is a mother and award-winning freelance writer.