RUN
Every morning, I run. Running has always held my interest. I am not a world-class runner or built to stride, but I love to run. I don’t know how to not run.
To run is to never have both feet on the ground at the same time. It is a skill that is perfected through repetition. While no one becomes a runner overnight, many become hooked after a single run. The chemicals released during a run, be it in the name of health or evasion, are addictive—they call it a runner’s high for a reason.
Some find running on their own. Others, like me, are born into running families. I come from a nontraditional running lineage that is distinctly Southern.
In high school, my dad ran hurdles. At five foot nine two hundred thirty pounds, my dad is as thick as he is tall. He wasn’t always built like this. In his prime, when he was easily clearing hurdles, Shoestring—my dad’s C.B. handle— was lanky on the top and thick on the bottom. My dad’s quads are impressive. So is his ability to get away.
As talented of a runner as Shoestring was, he could never outrun Mama. Mama was the best runner I’ve ever known. Running was Mama’s drug of choice.
…
“You heard me; whatever fits in the bag goes.”
Mama shoved the black garbage bag into my chest. I knew if I didn’t take it, Mama would leave it. I took the bag from Mama and walked toward my room. I didn’t own much. We’d only lived in this trailer for a couple months, which wasn’t enough time to collect a lot of stuff. Plus, we were poor, so I didn’t own much.
The only thing of any fundamental importance was my blue satin blanket. The comforter originally belonged to Mama and Alan, my stepdad. When Alan left, I kept it. Shoving my queen-sized protective layer into the garbage bag took all my strength. I fit a few other items, mostly my favorite toys, between the blanket and bag. The plastic stretched across the face of one of my G.I. Joe men, suffocating him.
Hugging the bag in my arms, careful not to tear it—I wouldn’t get another—I made my way to the way back.
When Mama gets in the station wagon, she reminds Lisa and me that our trailer was “a piece of shit, any goddamn way.” I disagree, but not out loud. I loved our trailer, having my own room, and being next to the creek and railroad tracks. As we drive away, I wonder who will sleep in my room tonight. I wonder where we will sleep.
…
When I run, I feel in control. With every step, I do the only thing Mama ever taught me how to do—run.
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