Don’t Tell Mom

A poem for Stevan and Daddy

Daddy and Stevan would take off on their bikes,
sometimes gone for hours, just enjoying the ride.
We wanted to get him a four-wheeler, but that wasn’t his plan.
He wanted two wheels, and Daddy helped him learn firsthand.

Stevan thought it was the coolest thing, learning how to ride,
and Daddy was right there, always by his side.
He taught him the hand signals, the rules of the road,
and to watch out for drivers wherever they’d go.

They’d find trails out by Tome, around Los Lunas too,
looking for hills and new trails to get through.
Daddy would point up a hill and say, “Don’t be a wimp!”
And Stevan would give it a try, even if he took a spill.

And when he’d fall or do something Mom wouldn’t approve,
Daddy had one thing to say before they’d continue to move.

“Don’t tell your mom.”

Because I was overprotective, and they both knew it well.
I’m sure there were plenty of stories they weren’t going to tell.
I’d call after an hour, sometimes two or three.

“When are you guys coming home? You’re worrying me!”

Daddy always packed their water and whatever they’d need,
because he knew those long rides could work up an appetite indeed.
They’d come home hungry and thirsty, with stories from the day,
and I’d probably fuss a little as they went on their way.

But now Stevan tells me things I didn’t know back then,
and I find myself wishing I could see those days again.
Not because the memories are sad, but because they’re good,
and I’d go back and watch them ride if I could.

Because it wasn’t just dirt bikes or climbing up a hill.
It was time with his daddy, those conversations that came naturally, still.
It was hours on the trails, just the two of them alone,
a father and his son, making memories of their own.

And I hope you keep those memories for the rest of your life,
the lessons he taught you, the laughter, the rides.
He taught you how to handle a bike and how to watch the road,
but the time he gave you is worth more than you’ll ever know.

I’m proud of you, Stevan, and I hope you understand.
You got to share those moments with your dad, just like a son should with his dad.
You learned to ride on two wheels, to take a chance, to be brave,
and those memories of your father are yours for all your days.

So keep telling me the stories, even the ones I never knew.
I’ll probably shake my head and laugh at the things you two would do.
I may have been overprotective, but I know you had a blast,
and I’d give anything to see you riding with your daddy one more time.

And if Daddy could take you riding one more day,
I can almost hear him telling you as you head along the way:

“Don’t be a wimp, Stevan. Come on, let’s ride!”

And I hope you always feel your daddy right there by your side.

Because one day, when you’re older, and your own kids want to ride,
you’ll remember all those lessons and the dad who stood beside you.
You’ll teach them how to be brave, how to get back up when they fall,
and you’ll hear your daddy’s voice in the things you tell them all.

And maybe you’ll pack some water, head out for a while,
let them climb those hills and come home with a smile.

And when they ask you what your daddy was like,
you won’t have to search for words or wonder what to say.

You’ll tell them about the bikes, the trails, and the hills he made you climb.
You’ll tell them how he taught you, one ride at a time.

And somewhere in those stories, your daddy will live on.

Because he wasn’t just the man who taught you how to ride.

He was your dad.

And no matter how many years pass,
no matter how far down the road you go,
you’ll always be that boy on a dirt bike,
with your daddy right beside you, saying,

“Don’t be a wimp, Stevan. Let’s go.”