Getting back to my old way of writing…
First grad essay to be works hoped, still untitled.
I feel the slam of my foot on the soil, the hard, hibernating ground my enemy as it reverberates back up through my leg: left foot pounds, earth hammering right back. Left hip sensing the shock, but right foot pounds anyway. I know the earth will hammer right back again as my right hip braces for that shock, the joint grinding, circling around in the socket. My feet pace the ground one…two…three…one…two…three, but it feels more to the rhythm of my heartbeat. One and…two and…three and…one and …two and …three and. I feel the pace start to pulse as my heart awakens and the first light breaks through the trees; my right leg rotates through my hip joint like a well oiled machine, but I feel it tremor as my leg kicks back. The whole body aware now of the pulsation thumping through my gait, but it fights and runs on. I do not count the pace anymore. My heart takes over.
I watch a hazy mist move over the morning, its white breath whispering the beginnings of autumn. Some would tell me to sleep the morning awake, but I pace on, my left foot meeting the ground in such a way that propels me to raise my right leg and let it, too, meet with the earth. The sun has chosen to rise today and illuminate the road upon which I run. The mist envelopes and leaves me, hinting at the colder weather that will soon arrive. I cannot tell if it is the tranquil feeling from the mist or the peace I gain as my body starts to soar into one movement, but I suddenly feel as if I am flying.
* * * * *
“And now ladies and gentlemen, the famous Caitlin Marie will perform her daring act of flips and turns on the high flying trapeze!” I announce to my crowd of witnesses—my puppy, a few butterflies, and my mother in the distance gardening. The thunderous applause dies down as I plant my feet and raise my arms in a V, preparing for take off.
I take a breath, swing my right arm down, and race towards the swing set. My tiny little body propels itself forward and just as I come up to the contraption, I stutter step to slow myself, grab the trapeze bar and swing forward flipping my legs up and over my center of balance curving them backwards between my head and the bar where I hook my knees over the top leaving my five year old self hanging upside down.
The next act is the grand finale:
I pull myself up to sit on the bar, swing my legs to gain momentum and as I’m moving through the air stand up on the bar bringing the crowd to a moment of awe. I hear the gasp in the crowd as I almost slip, but gain composure and lower myself back down, crouching, and finally releasing my feet to the dangerous free air. I somehow balance my chest on the bar and in a moment of shock, release my hands into superman position, only more outwardly like wings. The crowd takes a breath of silence and bursts into applause.
“The amazing Crazy Caitlin has done it again,” I hear my mother proclaim. She has stopped pruning the lilies to watch my silly acrobatics.
I flip over the bar and land on my feet. “Did you like it Mommy?” I ask running over to her.
“You were amazing my little trapeze artist.” She kisses me on the head and runs her fingers over my ear. I bobble my head because when she reaches the lobe, it tickles. Her laugh warms me while her words imprint themselves. “Someday you’ll have wings.”
* * * * *
But most striking were the things that arched up over her head, made of thin aluminum, cut with strong peaks at the top, sweeping curves at the bottom, lined with tiny bells, which made the chiming noise I was hearing. That we could all hear.
‘I don’t get it,’ Caroline said bemused. ‘She’s the only one with wings. Why is that?’
There were so many questions in life. You couldn’t ever have all the answers. But I knew this one.
‘It’s so she can fly,’ I said. And then I started to run.
I find that when I reach a rough spot in life, I always pick up The Truth About Forever. It’s a young adult book, teenage fiction, but I can see myself in my eighties walking through the back door after a cool, autumn run through piles of rustic, auburn leaves, grabbing a cup of coffee and my book, then forgoing all stretching just to pick up where I left off in Macy’s world.
Maybe I connect with her because I am a runner, too. Maybe I connect because I tried so hard, for so long, to be perfect, as she tries. Maybe I connect because I somehow never listen to my own advice like she does. Or maybe it’s because I understand that the first steps are always the hardest, but sometimes we get second chances. And that’s when we begin to run.
Unlike Macy, I have not yet had to deal with the grief of losing a parent, let alone someone who also stands in as a running partner and coach. But like everyone else, grief has found me. It often finds me. It often finds us all.
Death. Break-ups. Change. Just part of what shape Macy’s character. Just part of what shape me. How I long for those days of soaring on my trapeze, the butterflies my constant audience, my mother humming in the background while the lilies blossom. The wish for wings in the whispers of unruffled mornings before life found me.
But this time I picked up the novel. This one particular summer day, I found my wings before Macy had hers. I had just graduated college, fumbled through a series of messy relationships, and took another chance at running.
The first few steps were hard; it took me a second to catch my breath, but then I found my pace, and everything fell away, until there was nothing but me and what lay ahead, growing closer every second.
The one truth I know about forever is that it is happening. Now. Not in the innocent mornings of a five-year old dreamer. Not in the mistakes of a twenty year old girl. But in the heart of a twenty three year old woman, letting go.
And as the sun rises, the brevity of the mist is revealed in faith, saying Caitlin, wake up. I’ll give you a head start. Come on, you know the first few steps are the hardest part.
