i leave the house holding the rail my friend built,
a straight line from my door to the trike.

the trike runs on hand power.
easy to ride.

i drive out every day, just a few minutes,
always to find a bench with a view.

i park close. slide over.
directly from the trike to the bench.

sometimes i bring music, breathwork, iced coffee.
sometimes just myself.
but i go. every day.

because freedom isn’t won.
it’s built –
in the rail a friend welded,
in adjusting the trike to run on hands,
in breathwork practiced daily,
in showing up when i don’t feel like it,
in noticing the voice that says “don’t go,” and going anyway.