here today

 

4 a.m.

My sister and I were clearly labeled as children. My mom likes to compartmentalize. My mom LIVES to compartmentalize. So, I was the smart one and my sister was pretty. I got good grades and she charmed.

My dad, like most men, loves cute flirty girls. I'm not a cute flirty girl. I don't know how to do it ---- coy looks? downcast eyes?, giggles? Not me. I'm the combative flirt. Male in my need to banter, to fight. Love Is A Battlefield.

So, my sister was and is the favorite. The baby. Daddy's girl. When she was around, she was the center, the star, dancing for attention and getting it.

So I took mornings. And for my dad, mornings meant 4a.m. I was little, maybe 6 or 7, when I started waking up before sunrise to go to the track with and help him train for marathons. I'd run a mile or so and he'd circle past me, giving me tips on how to spit in the dirt without slowing down. Then we'd come home and make eggs and read the paper. Nobody else in the house was awake. Just me and Dad.

I loved those mornings.

Before I go to work at the insurance agency, I get up early to write. I complain, I pretend that I hate my schedule, that it's awful. I tell people I've stopped doing it so religiously. I'm not crazy, I say. But, in truth, I am. I get up early and the house is quiet and it's just me and my words on the screen, 2 cups of tea, Lucy snoozing nearby. Then Lu and I go for a run through the neighborhood, peeking in windows, waving at the guy on the bike.

In the cold and the rain, panting on the hills, I often think about being 6, circling behind my dad. The little girl on the track trying so hard to keep up makes me sad. I wish I'd kept sleeping, or carved out my own place instead of wanting so badly to take one that was already filled.

4 a.m. I spit in the dirt, and keep on running.

Posted by: 120pages at 09:55 | link | comments (1) |