Last week, he showed great improvement by agreeing to just go running for a couple of miles with Percy and me. Running is a new hobby of mine, a great way to stay healthy and commune with the universe at the same time, and it’s a good opportunity to spend time with Percy in a way that isn’t annoying, except that I have to listen to him talk about training for the NFL all the while. The first mile, Dad was talking and talking and talking, but after we passed Rabbit River, he stopped blabbing because he was tired and ran out of breath, and that’s when the best part of the run began to take place.
When his voice stopped, all of a sudden I could hear the sounds our shoes made when they hit the gravel, and the sounds we made when we inhaled and exhaled (especially Dad). I also heard the sounds of a far-off tractor in a field and the grass swaying in a ditch, and I noticed how bright and lush the green crops in the fields looked, and I felt myself sweating and busy and warm inside as my legs carried me along. We all turned around at the two-mile mark and started running back to the farm. Dad fell back, but he waved Percy and me on ahead of him. We kept up our pace, nice and easy at first. We jogged and pumped our arms in a common rhythm, and I thought about those months we spent together in Mom’s womb and the months we survived together at Uncle Stretch’s farm. I thought about how when Critter was born, Uncle Stretch took us all to the hospital to see her. I thought about the photo we took with me holding Critter, Uncle Stretch holding Pauly, and June Bug and Percy sitting on the bed with Sheryl. I thought about coming down the stairs one night and finding Uncle Stretch walking the floor with Critter on his shoulder, humming a little song to her that I remembered Mom singing to Pauly when he was little.
I thought about how sometimes Percy’s going one way, and I’m going the other. I thought about how different we are and how similar. Then I pushed myself a little harder, ran a little faster. Then Percy strode a little higher and ran a little faster. The pebbles kicked up beneath our feet. We each panted for air. Percy got out ahead of me a couple of inches. I willed my legs to go faster. I could feel my chest getting tighter. Dad shouted, “Go, kids, go!” And we did. We ran. We competed. We raced toward the farm, pushing ourselves, pushing each other all the way home.
Acknowledgments
The authors wish to thank …
Isabella, Mitchell, and Phillip, for being who they are and doing what they do.
The influences of our fathers, mothers, sibs, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
The Wednesday Writers of Mankato.
Agent Faye Bender.
Ruth Katcher and Egmont USA.
Our junior high English teachers: Mr. Bob Rise and Mrs. Julie Neubauer.
Edgar Allan Poe and Victor Hugo.
The compassion of Elle MacPherson.
Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.
Damien Lods.
The many peoples and animals of the state of Minnesota.
The students and teachers and vibe of Mankato State University’s MFA Program circa the early 2000s.
Ngugi wa Thiongo, Bapsi Sidwa, Mark Richard, Denis Johnson.
The Little Three: Violette, Archibald, and Gordon.
Camp Dells.
All our friends.
Each other.
Horses everywhere.
Horse Camp Page 19