It's always runny in Philadelphia

I want to make sure I document my marathon ventures as I take on this great country one state at a time, but it’s tough to get it all down.

How to begin this newest race report. . .

How about favorite running signs?  There were the usual ones:

“You think you’re tired? I have to stand here and watch you!”

“Worst. Parade. Ever.”

My favorite was new to me: “Why do the cute ones always run away.”   

My second favorite: “Hey random stranger, I’m proud of you!”

Random strangers, random kindness. There was a lot of that in this city of brotherly run and sisterly endurance. Yeah. That was the race motto. Brotherly run. Sisterly endurance.  Notice that instead of love it says run. For me, the substitution works because run and love go hand-in-hand. I like that the race organizers think that way too.  And how can I not adore that the race folks took one of the finest character traits out there – endurance – and combined it with a female descriptor?

Sisterly endurance?  Perfect.

We left in the wee hours of a frigid Saturday morning. There were three of us, me, my friend M, who was running her third marathon, and G, another runner who hasn’t yet bitten into the marathon apple.

The road trip was the best kind: uneventful and pleasantly fast. We arrived at the marathon expo just about 5.5 hours after we started. The expo was meh. No weird products. No drama. Not overly exciting. No offense intended, Philly. It’s just that I’ve overindulged way too many times at Boston’s, and I’ve yet to visit an expo that can compare in terms of noise, chaos, amount of vendors, and abundance of goodwill. 

Only bought one item, the book “Marathon Man,” by the legendary Bill Rodgers who was kindly signing autographs and chatting with each of us like we were long lost relatives -- the kind you want to find, not the kind you want to hide from.  When I told him about my quest to run all fifty states, he told me I wasn’t nuts, then started talking about some of his favorite races, including a ten-miler he used to do in my hometown. I got an endorphin high just listening to him. 

By the time we left the expo, my head was spinning. Given the early morning wake up, the long drive, the pre-race jitters, I was done. After a brief visit to the Reading Terminal Market, an indoor riot of bakeries, delis, florists, veggie stands, butchers, you name it, we hit our hotel. I was in bed by 8, and tossed, turned, and checked email for the next eight hours. Four-thirty could not come fast enough.

Next morning, G dropped us off at the race start well before six. Me, M, and another runner friend, N, huddled on a curb near the start, and in the gray light of dawn watched other frozen runners shiver past us. I’d brought a garbage bag to use as a poncho, but had foolishly opted to leave my gloves in the car. By the time we got in line to use the portable toilets one last time, I was shaking pretty badly and was worrying that I’d be worn out before the race began.  

We got to talking to the folks nearby. Where are you from? Doing the full or the half? Ain’t this cold a bitch?  Around us, loud speakers blared your typical starting line music. The sun was finally rising. We were just a couple of yards from the Philadelphia Museum of Art's iconic Rocky staircase.  When the woman in front of me said her name, I recited its Irish meaning. T has the same name as my sister.  T said she was from Philly and was doing the half. She gave us some tips on running the full. It was obvious she was familiar with the course. 

They were calling for runners to line up, so we started saying good-bye to this new friend.  She took off her gloves and handed them to me. I said no, I couldn’t take them. It was my own stupidity, my own fault that I was cold. T, this new sister, insisted. She turned the gloves inside out, and showed me the hand warmers inside. I again said no, I couldn’t. She said they only cost her a buck at CVS. Your hands will warm up right away, she said. Please, take them.

Finally, I did, blubbering something about the marathon motto and brotherly love and sisterly endurance. First thing I did with those gloves was wipe my eyes.

I jogged to the blue corral and my five-hour-plus marathon family, to the left of the Rocky stairs and the Rocky bronze statue, which was decked out for the day in a Philadelphia Marathon race shirt. The trumpet fanfare from the Rocky soundtrack was blasting over the loudspeakers. The front runners in the first corral had already crossed the starting line.  

I met up with two new friends in my corral, Kevin and Kim, both from New Jersey. I told them this was going to be marathon eighteen for me, and I was thinking I was kind of nuts to be there. Kim said she’d run her eighth just a few weeks back. Kevin was running his seventy-first. 

I said I hadn’t slept at all the night before and asked Kevin how long it took for his pre-race jitters to quit. He told me he’d never yet been able to sleep the night before a marathon. I asked him how many marathons he does per year. His answer: usually about fifteen, though 2014 was rough because he’d lost his dad. He’d only gotten in about eight. He pointed to the American Heart Association logo on the front of his singlet. His dad’s name was printed on the back. He said he was in for a tough run because he hadn’t been able to train much. 

The Flashdance song “What a Feeling,” started playing and we began moving forward. The race announcer said Bill Rodgers was with him. We all cheered when he shared this quote from Bill: “These marathoners are the best of America.” I looked at my gloves, and imagined my veins as warm rivers running from my fingers through my arms, all over my insides and down to my knees and it hit me that there was nowhere else I wanted to be right then and there but at that start line.

For the record, Flashdance was set in Pittsburgh, not Philly. But that doesn't take away from the fact that "What a Feeling" is an excellent starting line song. 

When the gun went off we all started up and I nearly got knocked down by the runner immediately in front of me. She stopped short and I smashed right into her.  

I said, “Geez. What the heck, lady?” 

She apologized and pointed somewhere off behind me. She told me I’d just missed the mayor, who was high-fiving every runner.

   

That’s the last important thing I remember from the start. We took off and ran on lots of flat road, all the way down to the Delaware River and past our hotel. Then we turned and headed back into the city. We passed stately brick townhomes, bars, sex shops, restaurants. I didn’t even notice the few hills that folks swore were on the course. We ran a bit through Drexel University and I talked for awhile with a guy who noticed I was wearing a Maine Marathon t-shirt and talked about how he traveled a lot to Portland to visit his girlfriend. We headed out of the city then turned back. We hit the Schuylkill River, which I now know how to pronounce, sort of. 

Sadly, I did not see Paddy's. 

At the halfway point, the art museum, we lost the half marathoners, who veered right to their finish line.  We continued around by my buddy Rocky, and I had to laugh because the announcer was reading off the list of speedy folks who’d already won the marathon. For miles we ran down one side of a road while the three- and four-hour marathoners ran toward us, up the other side. 

I guess some folks might think it’s depressing to be only halfway done with a race when the fast folks win it. I know some people might get frustrated and dispirited when they’re trotting along one direction for miles, while others, so far ahead of them, are coming back the opposite way. Me? I love it. 

There’s a saying that if you lose faith in human nature, you’ll get that faith back and more by watching a marathon.  There’s a ton of truth in that. When I’m out there plugging along, finishing my own race at my own pace, endorphins coursing through my heart and soul, and on top of that I get the gift of watching a marathon too? I don’t believe the word has been invented yet that fully describes the kind of high I feel. It is life-affirming to the max. 

When I finally got the chance to turn around at the far end of the course in Manayunk, where the fans rival Boston in terms of rowdiness and revelry – there were beer tables set up for runners for example – I was eager and ready to finish up the run. I was marveling at how well my legs were holding up. I was slow. I’ve been slow this whole year. But I was steady like I haven’t been in ages. My legs did not falter. Not once.  

I’d been worried about that final hill near the art museum, which had seemed endless on the way down. The last few miles of the course, I’d been so enthralled watching the runners around me and the fans with their signs. It occurred to me, as I reached the mile 26 mark that I’d totally forgotten about the hill’s existence. Somehow, I’d gotten up a half-mile-long hill without even noticing.  I saw the Rocky statue and decided to just go for it and run how I felt. I picked up speed and pounded toward the finish line. I didn’t want to stop, even when I was done. 

All three of us running that day – me, M, and N, had great days. The two younger women both set new personal records. I guess I did too, though unlike them, mine didn’t involve time. But while Philly wasn’t my fastest marathon, it took me to new places mentally and physically. Before this year, I’d hardly ever run more than one marathon per twelve months. This year, from April to November, I ran five.

Makes me think . . . I wonder what else I can do? Wow. What a feeling. 

Marathon: 18

State: 9 

 

Wise words. 

Why I miss retail

I’ve been thinking lately about returning to the wild and crazy world of part-time retail. I miss spending my entire paycheck on employee discounted clothes. I miss the free samples of general tso’s chicken at the food court. I miss the sanity.  

Some background first.  

I became a single mom when my daughters were still tiny. What I got in child support would have paid for about a half year’s tuition at the private all-boy high school where my ex had gone. So for years, I worked all kinds of nutty hours waitressing, because teacher pay even at the start of your career with a master’s and ten years work experience in another profession, is insultingly low. 

Still, I somehow managed to stay involved  in my daughters’ lives.  Our house was always full of books, though we went without television for three years because I couldn’t afford cable. I never took my kids to Disney World, but we traveled across the country two times. My job as parent was THE job. Everything else was secondary.

I did a good job. My girls did too. They had solid college opportunities. Both of my daughters opted for competitive, nationally recognized universities with hefty tuitions. They both got great financial aid packages, with a mix of some loans and lots of scholarships. I had no problem swinging tuition for the first child. Her dad and I evenly split the costs. 

However, with the second, the dad decided he couldn’t afford to help. He informed me of this two weeks before her first tuition payment was due. Luckily, we had a court date coming up because he hadn’t paid child support in ages. At the courthouse, he produced some fascinating tax documents that supported his position and destroyed what was left of my almost-nil faith in the system.  Amazes me still, how someone who owned so much rental property could legally get away with showing they have absolutely no income.

So, I needed to get a third job so my kid could go to the college she’d worked so hard to get into. It was the least I could do for her. I say third job because for years I’d been working two: teaching full-time, and working in an after school program. I got a job working 10 -15 hours a week in one of my favorite stores at our local mall. 

Retail can be stressful to the point of nuttiness if you work it full-time.  But when you’re a part-timer like I was, it’s a lot of fun. You have to like working with people. You have to enjoy, for a little while at least, making small talk. Working in retail is social. Most of the time, I loved it. 

Sure, there were a few jerky clients.  There were customers who’d act like I was their personal slave, sending me running around the store for this color or that size, leaving empty latte cups behind, piles of clothes turned inside out on the dressing room floor. 

You’d get these head cases who seemed more interested in using you for body image therapy than in buying anything.  Then there were the creepy guys who’d want to sit in the dressing room while their significant others tried on new clothes, even though it was obvious that that section of the store was female-only.    

The worst for me were the moms, sometimes accompanied by dads,  who’d let their kids run all over the place, spill cookies and juice,  while they talked on their cell phones or obsessed over how a pair of pants fit, or which color sweater better matched their eyes. I had absolutely no problem speaking up when their children were fooling around. I’d hand parents tissues so they could clean up the messes they let their little ones leave behind.  You wouldn’t believe the amount of parents who’d act like it was my job to clean up after their kids. Seriously. It was eye-opening.

I even went so far once as to tell a particularly clueless parent that I would have to call mall security if she continued to let her toddler run out of the store and into the mall walkway.  I was appalled that I had to keep retrieving the kid for her. 

I quit retail a few years back when I started having to call in sick a lot because of family illnesses that seemed to always coincide with my weekend shifts. Plus, my girls were both out of college then and I didn’t need the money so much anyhow. 

There are so many things I truly miss about working in retail. I miss the pleasant chit chat. You don’t get much of that in the schools these days. Most teachers I know are beyond stressed. Any talking we do tends to focus on testing, student data, classroom behaviors, and heartbreaking out of school issues that we have no control over, like homelessness, violence, and so many skewed parental priorities that don’t involve putting kids first.    

I miss the social outlet that the retail world gave me. I miss the clothing discounts too. But I don’t miss the obnoxious customers. I don’t miss the parents who expected me to clean up their kids’ messes.  In the store where I worked, parents were held responsible for their kids’ behaviors. I appreciate that. It dovetails with my own personal beliefs.  

I miss that saner, rational way of thinking. That’s another reason I miss retail.  

If it was easy it would be called your mom: IMT Des Moine Marathon

I picked that title because it was one of my favorite fan posters along the IMT Des Moines Marathon route. It’s not a poster that’s new to me: “If (insert marathon here) was easy, it would be called your mom."  I’ve seen derivations of the same saying at plenty of other races. Boston and Providence come to mind. 

I got an extra big chuckle from the words at this race, because the poster was held by a conservatively dressed, fresh-faced young woman who looked too sweet and innocent to have even an inkling of the red hot fury on some of my students’ faces when they’ve used the "your mom" phrase. And Des Moines, this small town/ pristine city of bridges, corn, handmade quilts, butter cows, is the polar opposite of the crumbling red brick, spray painted, broken-windowed, gang-infested neighborhood where I teach. 

I had to laugh. It was too cute.

  

I loved the Des Moines Marathon. I loved it from the minute I signed up back in July. Loved it as I overpaid for plane tickets to get me there. Loved it as I roamed the expo for the twenty minutes or so it took me to see everything I needed to not buy. Even loved it at the halfway point, when my legs faltered, along with my confidence, and I decided that if I needed to walk the rest of the course, then so be it. 

I would run Des Moines again in a heartbeat. Why? Because I got to run it with my daughter. She first visited Des Moines as part of a law school internship last year, then decided after she graduated to make this city her new home.  My visit to Iowa was a visit, on several levels, with family. 

I arrived near midnight the Friday before the race. On the last leg of the trip, which originated at O’Hare in Chicago, I was upgraded to first class. Had a pleasant conversation with a woman who commutes a couple of times a month from her job in Boston to her home in Des Moines. She gave me her business card and told me to pass it on to my daughter, in case she needed some connections in order to get a job. What a wonderful way to start the trip. 

The airport was smaller than T.F. Green in Providence. Except for the folks from our flight, it was quiet and empty. My daughter was at the curb when I exited the terminal shortly after departing the plane.  Fifteen minutes of wide, calm streets later, we arrived at her apartment on the western outskirts of the city.     

It took us about four traffic lights and a short stretch of highway to get to the expo the next morning at the local convention center. There was free parking everywhere. My daughter pointed out the glass-enclosed pedestrian bridges connecting most of the downtown buildings. She explained this was so folks wouldn’t have to walk outside during brutal weather. I noticed neat, easy-to-read signs on lampposts at every intersection, pointing pedestrians and drivers to businesses on those streets. 

The expo was a little larger than the one I’d visited two weeks earlier in Portland at the Maine Marathon. There were the usual local vendors, including two local running stores, and lots of physical therapy offices. I chatted with local author Terry Hitchcock, who was autographing “A Father’s Odyssey: 75 Marathons in 75 Days,” a book detailing his heroic journey to raise funds for causes close to his heart, including autism and breast cancer. I picked up a business card from Iowan artist Cindy Swanson, sole owner of CampusTshirtquilt.com, who turns old race shirts into gorgeous quilts. My daughter picked up info on one of her favorite runs involving her all-time second favorite treat – Nutella is first, a chocolate-themed race that gives every runner an awesome fleece pullover, plus, um, chocolate.  

The two of us scratched our heads a bit at the fact that the expo included a Tupperware booth. Seemed a little random but no more random, I guess, than the bath fitter guys and the window replacement companies that seem to show up at every race expo I’ve ever visited.

Guess I should get to the running part. . . 

It took us all of 15 minutes to get to the race start the next morning, no traffic jams, no major road detours. Temps were in the mid-forties, so we scooted into a hotel at the start in order to stay warm. Ten minutes before the run, we made our way to the packed starting line -- about 4,000 total marathoners, half-marathoners, relay runners -- on a low bridge over the Des Moines River.  My kiddo headed toward the nine-minute pacers. I headed toward my people at the back. 

As the race began, a local radio personality shouted out names of some of the runners. Music pounded. The crowd roared. The first few miles were flat. We headed toward the state house, an onion-domed, gilded confection, then turned back toward the city hall, a handsome building straight out of the H.H. Richardson era, crossed the river again, and started up a broad tree-lined avenue. We passed the city art museum, and many sprawling thick-stoned 19^th century mansions, then entered into a winding, narrow-laned neighborhood of Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired prairie style homes.    

   

Lots of folks wore Marathon Maniac gear and 50 States shirts. I ran with one woman who’d run all fifty states four times each. She was maybe in her seventies and wore red, white, and blue tie-dyed calf sleeves. We talked for a bit about her crazy journey. As I passed her, I called out, “I want to be you when I grow up!” She called back, laughing, “and I’m broke too!” 

Ran with another 50 Stater and asked him how long it took him to get them all in. His reply went something like this: “ten days seventeen hours and twelve minutes.” I must have looked confused because he laughed and added, “Well you asked me how long it took. That’s my answer.”  

I ran for a bit with a fellow Marathon Maniac who was finishing up her fifty state quest. Iowa was her last state. She was surrounded by a fan club of marathoners, all cheering her on the whole way. 

I saw lots of runners wearing two bibs, one for the Des Moines Marathon, and another showing that they were part of the I-35 Challenge. Interstate 35 runs through both Des Moines and Kansas City.  Des Moines was their second marathon in two days. They’d done a marathon in Kansas City the day before. 

Ran for a few miles with one young guy who asked me all kinds of questions about Boston. My pants, top, and hat were all souvenirs from my love, my Boston Marathon, so my Mass stood out a bit. He was obviously having a tough time, even at mile 8. His pants and t-shirt were soaked through. He was limping. He’d run Kansas City the day before.  

A part of me wanted to stay with him and help him finish the course. But we all have to run our own races. I left him around mile 9, but saw him later on at one of the several out and back spots where faster and slower runners get to meet up and smile at each other. I pointed to him and yelled out, “Hey Kansas City, you look wicked awesome.” He gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.  

Met up with my daughter when I was at mile 10 and she was at mile 14. She gave me her sweat-laden windbreaker and I wrapped it around my waist. It had warmed up by then. I was used to carrying packs and jackets on runs. She was not. Helping her out seemed like the mom thing to do.

By the time I hit mile 14, I was done. My legs were worn out and I was walking more than running. I’d just made it up an endless, sneaky incline which had started at Drake University, where we’d run for about a mile. We ran on the blue rubber tracking around the stadium and got to see ourselves on the Jumbotron.  

It was then that I saw that silly “your mom” sign and where I met up again with Dale, a runner I’d talked with a bit around mile five or so. He’d told me then that he was running his first marathon. He looked strong and left me behind after awhile. By the time I caught him again, he was walking, shoulders slumped.      

I reminded him of something I’d been telling myself: Getting to the starting line is a victory in and of itself. We talked about why we were running, about not wanting to settle, about our desire to never stop exploring. I eventually had to say good-bye. I'd started feeling better. 

Mile 16 I felt reborn. We were on a downhill entering a gorgeous bike/running trail. We passed horse farms, streams, wildflower fields. I ran for awhile with a younger runner wearing a great quote on the back of her t-shirt. I kept repeating some of the words as I ran: wild, precious, life.

My new favorite never-stop mantra.

Still, by mile 19 I wanted to die. Still on the trail, and could see behind and ahead of us how it meandered and seemed to take us nowhere. I was Sisyphus, pushing the same boulder over and over. Though at one point my brain got all muddled and I couldn’t remember if Sisyphus was the guy with the intestines that birds kept eating. My stomach was bothering me by then.

I was no different from any other runner out there. We were all struggling.  I saw a two-story high plastic cow, and met a fellow teacher wearing a green shirt that said The Long Walk on the front and 3-14-14 on the back. She taught American Lit and every year has her students read that story by Stephen King. Then the entire group goes on a 23-mile walk.

I ran the last few miles with a woman wearing a winter jacket and a wool cap. Don’t know how on earth she was comfortable, but she moved steadily and I did too.  Got passed at mile 25 by Jennifer, one of the I-35 Challenge runners. She was fast.  I yelled out that she looked good.  Her response, yelled back: “I can’t feel shit. I just had four beers and a Mimosa.”

Finished the run on the same bridge where we started. Met up with my daughter, who’d crossed the line 90 minutes earlier, gone home, showered, changed and come back to meet me.We celebrated with free pizza and chocolate milk from one of the marathoner food tables the next bridge over.

That evening, we drove to Ames, university town about a half hour away, and met up at Hickory Park with the parents of my daughter’s boyfriend. Barbecue never tasted so good. They’d driven 150 miles to visit with us. They said that in Iowa driving that distance isn’t a huge deal.

Post-race heaven in Ames, Iowa.  

  

My daughter mentioned the big plastic cow, near the mile 22 water stop. The dad asked what kind of cow. My daughter shrugged. “It was black and white.” 

“Ah, a dairy cow,” he replied. Then he named the particular type, but that information is lost to me now. I was busy licking barbecue sauce off my fingers and wondering what it would feel like to be able to say I ran two marathons in two days.  

Next morning, my daughter dropped me off at the airport and I had some time to kill. I wandered the corridor a bit, thinking maybe I’d grab a coffee. I was wearing my new race shirt, a half-zip, peach-colored technical deal with the marathon logo emblazoned over the heart. I met another woman wearing the same shirt. 

D is from California and as of tomorrow, when she finishes up the Marine Corps Marathon, will have seventy marathons under her belt. She’s shooting for one hundred. We got talking about Des Moines, Marine Corps, and other races. I never did get that pre-boarding coffee and almost missed my flight.

As I rushed off, D gave me her business card and we promised to keep in touch. She's hoping to do Boston someday. 

So yes, I would run Des Moines again. I love visiting with family.

Marathon:17
State: 8 

No regrets

I was cleaning my house yesterday and found under my bed, among the cats and cat-sized dust balls, a notebook from my senior year in college. It’s a rectangular, spiral-bound job, of a size that could easily fit in a canvas book bag or a crowded suitcase. 

The last half of the book was loaded with notes from Intro to Psych, one of my fall ’81 college classes. The first half of the book is a journal I kept while on a two-week family trip to Ireland that August.  

First page, dated August 11, I wrote this about our rental, a red Toyota mini-wagon: “The poor Jap car was  a stick shift and didn’t enjoy 4^th gear; every time we began speeding up, it stalled. Father, of course, became somewhat apoplectic.” 

“Jap” car?

I called my dad Father? 

Apoplectic?

Wow. I was an idiot. Still am of course, and still overusing of course.

And I have to laugh at something else that hasn’t changed all that much, my frugality/ stupidity when it comes to spending money.

I imagine most folks who keep family vacation journals save them in special places like plastic bins or cedar chests. Me? I figured the notebook was only half-used so why spend a buck on a new one? Why not use it all up for something else? Like a class? I didn’t even waste one page. First day of notes starts the page after our last day, which was in Cork at the Oyster Tavern where per my notes, “the food was excellent and, according to my father, the cheapest meal we’ve had so far.”

I’m two weeks into an education class right now, one of those state-required things. First night, as I was headed out the front door for the five-minute drive to the class that was starting in less than three, I realized I forgot to buy a notebook. So I grabbed one from the stack of half-filled ones on the dining room table. Now my Sheltered English Immersion class is sharing note space with my writings from Les Standiford’s summer workshop on narrative and the hero’s journey.  

Luckily, I throw out next to nothing. So though my notebooks may not be excessively organized, they’re all alive and well and gathering dust somewhere, either here in my house or in the cellar at my parents’.

And now I have this online blog to add to my writing chaos.

Anyone who’s been reading this knows I write about all kinds of things. I know I should be more focused if I want to draw a larger reading audience. Like maybe I should write about marathons all the time. Or single motherhood. Or cancer. But sticking to one specific topic is not who I am right now. I have a lot on my mind. It’s enough of a struggle some days finding socks that match. If I’m going to write, I need to organize my way on my terms.  

Today I want to write about a conversation I was part of last week. Because it involves loved ones, I won’t be super specific, though if you know me really well, you’ll figure things out.

We were having some wine and somehow got on the subject of who we wanted to be when we were younger.  

I’d just gotten done showing off my awesome Maine Marathon medal and had mentioned I was headed off soon for yet another marathon. When I got asked why on earth I was doing this to my body, I explained that I was taking the runs nice and slowly and was doing my best to keep safe. I mentioned evidence that most studies say running does not ruin your knees, and that in fact running can enhance your life as you age.

I revealed my grand plan: fifty marathons, one per state, no deadline, no time goals. I said I had dreams about who I wanted to be, and there’s no time like the present to start working on them.

Me: Certainly, you must understand about goals?

E takes a long gulp from her glass and her eyes get big and thoughtful. “Of course. I always dreamed of becoming. . ."

Me, interrupting, because I think I know her so well, “A writer.”

E has always loved the written word. Her mother's cherished school books from Ireland are tidily stored in the bottom drawer of a polished cherry chest in her living room. Her father’s writing desk, a cheap nothing of a thing but here all the way from Killarney, is her most prized possession. Every waking minute of every day off from work, when she wasn’t napping, or playing for hours on her piano, she was reading. Even now, in retirement, books are her favorite companions. I was pretty sure I’d nailed it.

E shakes her head. “Pianist. I wanted to be a concert pianist. I wanted to play for Cornell.” 

Cornell? I shake my head. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard this. I ask what she means.

Her mouth becomes an angry line. She drinks as she explains. Her voice is flat and low. Sometimes she laughs and the sound of that laughing is so bleak and joyless it kills me. She says that when she was sixteen, her father died suddenly. This, like breathing, I have known since before I was born.

E explains she was set to audition for some prestigious scholarship program connected with Cornell. I don’t know the details, but the way she described it made me think it was a gateway to bigger things and world-class opportunities, like Broadway, Carnegie Hall, the London Symphony Orchestra.

E says that after her father’s death, her mother wouldn’t let her play the piano at all. Not once. Tradition. No music for thirty days. Because E didn’t practice, she got rusty. The audition was sometime near the end of the thirty days. E ended up not trying out.  

E finishes with this: “I had dreams.” Her eyes are far away.

I feel like I’m at a wake. The room feels that heavy.

The other one at the table is silent this whole time. He’s watching me wipe my eyes. When E stops talking, he says to me, “What’s wrong with you?” His voice is harsh.

I shrug and avoid his eyes. I say that it’s just so sad. We should never give up on our dreams.

He usually laughs off these serious moments. But today he nods ever so slightly at me, which makes me wonder about his dreams. I wonder what he thinks about what E has just said.  But I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to know.   

I take a sip of my wine to still my mouth because I’m afraid of other things I might say, layers worth of stuff that have no business being part of this conversation at this point in time. Even now my brain goes there. I think about what shapes us: love, loss, ethnicity, religion, our families, friends, our choices because we always have choices, don't we?   

I wish I’d written this down last week, when I remembered more. Glad I was able to get at least this much out. These are things worth remembering.