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| April 7, 2004 ::7:21pm:: I woke up at 4:20am, later than planned but more rested than expected. I pulled on some clothes (mostly fleece, in order to brace myself against the morning cold). Mom was already waiting in the kitchen. I decided that I would talk today. You see, when Mom and I take our morning walks, I have to make this decision--whether to be silent in fear that my crankiness (read: bitchiness) would upset her or talk in order to catch up on her thoughts and to share mine. We discussed women who wear suits to work, the neighbor's plants, and how the money she pays to our neighborhood's owners association is being wasted because its sprinklers are sprinkling directly onto the street. She asked about the phases of the moon. I felt like an astronomer. I leave her behind on our walks, picking up the pace to a jog, then jog back to her. She is afraid for her safety in the early-morning darkness of our middle-class suburban neighborhood. When I run, I think about Anthony. I look at the sky, as if heaven existed in the clouds. Looking at the road ahead is too difficult, makes me tired, reminds me of my weakness. When I return to Mom's side, and after I've caught my breath, I tell her that the year has been good. I recount graduation; job hunting; doubting my self-worth in my inability to find employment; re-establishing it when I became a teacher; the trip to California to honor the anniversary of my brother's passing; the trip to Las Vegas to reunite with friends; and finding and losing what I thought was love. I've learned a lot. We walk back home together, silently, to stretch our limbs and begin a new day. We will do this again tomorrow. ::300 words:: |