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?You won't recognize the city in the morning. Dawn changes things. The river, the trees, the buildings. The rising sun makes them breathe.?
?But I won't be able to,? Paul looked down and nudged a frayed tug rope with his toe. Barkley raised his head with reserved interest and quickly assessed that the human was in no mood to play, which was okay ? he was having a nice snooze, soothed by their voices, anyway. He rested his head again.
?It's good for you. First week we'll just go around the neighborhood. We don't have to take longer jogs through the park until you're ready.?
There was a disconnect between the action heroes who Paul loved to watch on screen and the capabilities of his own body. Dad thought it was just a case of motivation, but every time Paul had tried to run he felt like death. Like gravity was going to drag him down to the ground and crush his ribs until his lungs gave out. But the man who raised him with kindness wanted this from him and Paul hated to say no to him. ?One week,? he offered sheepishly, holding up his index finger and looking up to gauge Dad's face. ?I'll try.?
Dad smiled. That set all kinds of serotonin rushing through Paul's system. He didn't know what to do with it, so he grabbed up the rope and Barkley leapt up for a game of tug and he did long battle with the dog until his arms were tired and Barkley's jaw was tired and the two of them collapsed into a cuddle on the couch, where the dog was not technically allowed.
Paul turned on the screen and saw a secret agent take a running leap to clear the gap between the roofs of two cars of a train and thought ?How?'
---
Up before the sun and shivering in the summer. Paul asked dad couldn't he wear full pants? Dad said they'd be hot and sweating in a few minutes. A few minutes was as far as Paul made it. Then it was like the air was heavy and thick. Like his chest had to lift the weight of the world to draw it in. They had made it as far as the big bridge, which spanned the creek just two blocks away from the house. Paul hunched with hands on knees, sweating and drooling and afraid he would heave. Running, he decided day one, was evil.
Why then, did Dad love it? How was it that in the morning, when he emerged from the shower in a swirl of steam just as Paul was usually waking, Dad was at his happiest? The man would dance about and sing and make breakfast, full of energy after running. Paul felt bad for cutting Dad's run so short. He felt bad that he was drenched when Dad hadn't broken a sweat. He was embarrassed by comparison. Dad wasn't even out of breath.
Then Dad put his hand on Paul's back and Paul felt a little better. He slowed down his breath and sent it into the hand. In a few moments, he could stand upright again, a little dizzy but not much worse for wear. The sun crept over the trees in the east and scattered orange flickers up and down the creek. His ears felt strange from the effort of running, but he soon tuned out the sensation in favor of focusing on the birds' singing.
They walked home from there at a regular pace. All day, Paul's legs felt like jelly. That night he fell asleep early. The next morning, he did not want to run again. But he did.
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The third morning they ran all the way across the bridge and back. Paul felt proud of himself, but had pushed himself and gotten sick. His pride immediately shifted to embarrassment as only pride can. How pathetic he felt himself to be in front of Dad as he spewed, mostly bile, onto the grass. Later, on their walk, Barkley would sniff the sick and look at Paul knowingly and rub up against his leg, trying to comfort him, which only made him feel even more pathetic.
On the fourth day he refused to get out of bed, and Dad was gone almost an hour, taking the long run to which he was accustomed. Mom brought Paul's breakfast to his room and let him brood. Paul didn't understand the way he felt. He never wanted to run in the first place. So why was he so angry?
Angry at Dad for making him do something he wasn't capable of. Angry at Mom for her constant words of encouragement. Angry at Barkley for looking at him.
Paul kicked around in his bed sheets out of frustration all morning and wished he had something to break. In the afternoon he walked down to the creek and snapped small sticks with his hands and snapped large branches by holding one end and stomping on them. When a branch was broken too small to snap further, he tossed the remaining bits into the current and watched them drift downstream. Some got caught up on rocks and other debris, while some continued on their journey well out of sight. He thought he was like the bits that got stuck and Dad was like the ones that kept going with the flow.
Then he watched the bits that got stuck for a while to see what would happen to them. Some eventually dislodged and continued their way downstream. Others remained and grew large with swelling, which depressed him. But he sat watching for so long, that the birds forgot him and came down and collected some of the little caught bits for their nests. And Paul thought ?There's more than one way to go about this.'
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The next day, Paul woke with Dad and got ready. On the porch he said ?Let's go different directions and meet by the back of the zoo in twenty minutes.?
Dad looked at him with a face like he was trying to make up his mind about asking a question. Then he said ?Okay, see you then,? and jogged off.
Paul began to walk toward the zoo by the most direct route, through the neighborhoods and past the apartments. Sometimes he lifted his knees high and sped up a little bit, but only when he felt like it. Dad would be running up and down the park trail a ways to eat up the twenty minutes before meeting him. Where the neighborhood gave way to the zoo grounds, Paul found an assortment of tree stumps set up in an artful circle around a bench. He climbed up onto one and assessed the distance to the next. It was a challenging gap, but seemed manageable. He leapt and got one foot on the second stump, almost landing it. He mounted the first stump again and tried the leap again. A minute or two and several attempts after, he landed solidly on the second stump and beamed a smile at the trees. A smile no person had to see.
He jogged at his own easy pace the rest of the way to the rendezvous and didn't even notice he had begun to sweat until Dad showed up and wiped his own forehead on his shirt and Paul mirrored the motion by unconscious imitation and looked in surprise at the stain of perspiration on his shirt fabric.
---
Paul would not go on to run frequently nor far like his father. But he did discover mornings and possibilities and agency and his own internal barometer of achievement. He realized that people could love different things for the same reason and the same things for different reasons.
Sometimes he would rendezvous with Dad in different parts of the city and they would share a slice of morning, each having arrived in the way which best made them happy. Paul had arbitrarily set their very first meeting at the zoo's rear entry and he still liked to revisit the place on occasion, for familiarity's sake and to see how it changed with the seasons. One time, there were men unloading boxes from a truck near the zoo's back gate. Feeling well and awake and joyful, with energy to spare, Paul offered them a hand. They accepted and spoke with him as they went about the task. He learned that they made a delivery around that time every Thursday and began to meet them then and help out and chat.
Eventually, the delivery hands introduced him to several zoo staff, who over time got to know him and asked if he would like to meet the penguins. He got to meet several animals, up close and personal, in this manner, and in his teen years was hired for a menial cleaning position by the zoo. He went on to study biology and zoology, and to harbor a life-long love of animals and the care of them. Especially the ones who were up with the sun and most active in the morning.
Shelly walked along the dirt road determined to find a post office or at least a postage stamp. In the little town of Sayulita, Mexico, a quaint and bohemian-like town just forty minutes from Puerto Vallarta, she found it absurd that there was not one store who sold postage stamps. Her sandals were getting worn and dirty from walking through the colorful Mexican town. Sayulita was alive with history, vibrant colors, and food that to say was delicious was like saying the sky was vast. Looking for someone who had postage stamps for sale was harder than going 5 minutes without someone trying to sell you a leather bracelet or a beaded bag.
Part of Shelly's vacations were usually spent sending postcards. She loved picking out just the right card for her friends and family. Her sister always got a card with food that the city or country was famous for; her best friend liked picturesque cards, depicting the sunsets, buildings and beaches; and her colleague from work liked unusual cards, like a textured card or something with glitter and foil.
?Are we going to spend all day looking for stamps?? Shelly's husband, Mark asked just before she left him at the hotel room.
?You don't have to go with me. Meet me on the beach, you know by that little bar that served those huge margaritas,? Shelly quickly answered trying to avoid another discussion about her postcard obsession.
?I don't want you to get mad, but maybe in the future you should buy stamps before we leave on vacation?? he said as if he'd had a genius solution.
?I always get my stamps ahead of time?when we're traveling in the states. We're in another country, you have to buy stamps in the country where it's being mailed from,? she replied and adding, ?Besides, I tried,? she smiled letting him know she had the same idea.
Mark knew when he met her how much her postcards meant: writing them, sending them, receiving them, and collecting them. She always said, postcards are a way of documenting each of her trips and sharing it with her friends and family. She took the time to personalize each card, not just a, ?wish you were here,? card, but making sure each recipient knew the card was only meant for them. Shelly and Mark have a neighbor, Clara, who does not travel much, but loves to know all about their trips. For this reason, especially, her cards always get the most care because Shelly knows how much she appreciates them. When Clara receives her postcards, she makes a point to call Shelly and let her know how much she enjoyed it. Once when Shelly and Mark went to Paris and she'd sent Clara a card, it took over two months for it to be delivered.
?Shelly, hi! I got the card, it's beautiful,? Clara was so excited when the mailperson dropped off her mail that morning.
?I'm so glad, I wonder why it took so long?? she said completely stumped.
?I loved the picture of the Eiffel Tower at night, it must have been beautiful to see it in person,? she said dreamily.
?You have to go to Europe, if you ever get a chance,? Shelly said hoping that maybe one day she would take charge of her fear of flying and get on a plane.
?You know I never will, but I can live vicariously through you,? she said sadly, but happy to have a friend like Shelly.
Shelly often wondered what she would do with her vacations if she didn't travel. Thankfully Mark liked adventures as much as she did.
?Shell, maybe you should pick up another hobby? One that's more current, like blogging? I mean who writes a note anymore, that's why we have emails and texting,? He said trying to convince his wife to go with him to the beach instead of looking for postage stamps
?I guess that's what I like about it, it's a dying artform. There was a time that post cards were common, it's how people bragged and showed friends and family where they've been. It was a way to say, haha, you're not here. But now it's fading away. I want to keep it alive, like cursive and magazines,? she smiled at him as she stepped into her sandals and reached for her canvas bag. ?Don't be mad at me,? she kissed his cheek, ?if you think you'll miss me too much, you can come with me,? she held out her hand for him to take, but instead of taking it, he kissed it. Shelly opened the door, turned and said, ?I'll see you in two hours,? and with those words she left the hotel room.
?Un stampia para cartas,? Shelly was sure that was how you asked for a postage stamp in Mexico. She took out her phone and googled for a translator. As she stood at the counter in the pharmacy, thinking for sure they would have post stamps and for some reason there's two pharmacies on every block, she held her bag and struggled to type in ?postage stamps'?sello de correos! She spoke loudly and smiled like she'd discovered gold in the little store.
?Ah, sello de correos!? The woman was happy she understood but frowned as if she let her down, ?no tengo,? she said.
You don't have it Shelly translated in her head, ?está bien, adios,? she walked out of the pharmacy and looked at her phone. Oh, no! how could I forget to check the time, I'm late to meet Mark. Shelly walked quickly towards the main street; she hadn't realized she'd neared the edge of the small town. Now which way is the beach, she looked up to see where the sun was, does it set over the water or on the other side?
?Desculpe señor, dónde está la playa?? Shelly asked a young man hoping he knew which way the beach was. He pointed left.
?Gracias,? she felt relieved and quickly started walking.
Shelly looked at her phone again, thirty minutes late. She tried to call Mark to let him know she was on her way, but she was not able to get through to his phone, she kept getting a message in Spanish and it was not something she could translate, the words seemed meshed together.
After three small blocks filled with street carts selling fruits, souvenir shops and vendors walking their wares of jewelry, pet collars, hats and all sorts of handmade treasures, Shelly spotted the straw awning that hung outside of the margarita bar and saw Mark looking up and down the street. There was no mistaking the smile that spread across his face, like a rose blooming in rapid motion as soon as he saw Shelly.
?No,? she said sadly. It didn't seem fair that not only did she worry Mark, but it was for nothing. ?Maybe tomorrow I can go into Puerto Vallarta, I was told by one vendor that they have a post office there?? she asked as if this afternoon had never happened.
?We go together, I need stamps too,? he smiled as he fanned out several postcards. ?I'm not letting you go alone again.? She took his hand as they both walked over to a table where Mark had two margaritas and a plate of nachos waiting for them, but secretly, she wanted to marvel at each postcard he'd chosen more than she wanted the margarita.
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