Monday, July 30, 2012

running in the morning


This morning I woke slowly to the sound of nothing. It was still dark outside, the only light from the porch of a bungalow outside my one open window. I rolled over to check my clock, willing it to show me a time hours from when I needed to wake up. Instead, it read just one minute before my alarm would sound. I lied in bed a few minutes longer, scorning Mondays and suddenly remembering that I’d left my car on the street overnight and may have a parking ticket. Thank goodness for the capacity to remember the sun, to recall it’s steady rising, because on mornings like these that is the only thing that can pull me from my bed before it’s already there. From there it was contacts in, clothes on, shoes laced up, door locked behind me, an empty street before me. I ran across and down and away and I was off. Slowly the sky woke up as I ran, from black to grayish blue like the colors Picasso used. I ran down the hill, blindly ripping through spiders’ webs, all those hours of work gone with one sweeping move. I counted down my steps on the way back up, and as I rounded the corner home something told me to look up. Behind the mountains the sun stirred, splashing orange and yellow against the now bright blue sky. The colors, which we give names in order to distinguish one from the other, blended into each other like they knew a secret we never want to face: that bleeding doesn’t hurt as much as they say, that it’s actually what connects one thing to the other. I ran fast at the end because I could, and I knew that pain as the kind that feels good. After I stopped, I untied my shoes to retrieve my key from the lace and walked through the front door. The house was still, and no one knew the quiet world of things I held and let go of even before the sun roused them awake.

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