Burning it Off
 
Is that all there is?  Peggy Lee husked.
Is that all there is?   Two good memories
of my father surface,  kicking and thrashing.
Water that deep, yes.   Still collects mud
and debris, though stagnant.   I was seven?
Eight?   Setting:   a bandstand town by a river
preparing to flood.   Beardstown a haven
for mosquitoes and gossip,  but safe
enough for a child to skip from one end
to the other and back.   Daddy worked
as an accountant for a mysterious “CIPS.”
In time,  I learned it had something to do
with light and water.   Everybody laughed
at Daddy, Mother told him.   Odd Duck,
they dubbed him.   For one,  he exercised.
Walked to the office and back.   Punched
a bag on the back porch.   Good memory
one:   he treated the wart on my knee,
only letting the acid burn one time.
He was gentle.  He went slow.    Explained
what the acid would do.   It was the most I
had heard him talk.   Other memory
is of running side-by-side to the track
out back of Beardstown High.    Sometimes
he pulled back and let me win.   I knew.
I didn’t care.   I won.   I WON.
 
Where my little brother was, who knew.
‘Bunny’ specialized in running away
to hide.  Without knowing,  I learned that
if I wanted to win,  I had to play that game.
Running was a lesson learned too well.
What I wouldn’t give for the decades
spent running.   Felt it felt great to sweat
it out.   Sweat up a haze.   A pee was bliss.
Always run a breeze in place to cool away
the burn of losing him.   Losing others.  
Losing, losing. . .no, I am winning.   See?
See?    Years when I ran with alcohol.
Like running with scissors to prove I
had grown.   Sometimes hurled myself
pillar to post    Sometimes ran by standing
stock still.   As a post, yes.   As a post.
Some of my runs won prizes.   Degrees,
even accolades.   Won a good husband.
Fantastic kids.    Hey, they sometimes called
out.   Wait for us!   Don’t worry,  I yelled.
Be back in a flash.    They and others worked
to slowly slow my aching,  pellmelling
feet and over-pumping heart.   Still run --
read-read-read-write-write-write -- but running
is no longer the object it was.   Sideline myself
to chat with Memory from time to time.
 
 
©) Phyllis Jean Green, September, 2005