The Language Inside (23 page)

I sleep late the next day

and Mom drives me to school in YiaYia’s car

I don’t say anything and neither does she

until we’re nearly at the school driveway

I think you should start running
she says

hmm
I say

I hate running

I like sports

I play sports

I’m good at sports

and dance

but I hate

just

running

if I were in Japan

I’d be playing volleyball

maybe on varsity

practicing for the tournament

and taking Saturday classes

at the dance studio . . . 

here Toby has middle school soccer

but for me there’s just dance club

I swallow my thoughts

hold my tongue

maybe
I say to my mother

just before I get out of the car

but it doesn’t end there

when I get home from school

she insists on taking me for a run

she plays the guilt card

so I can’t refuse:

               
I’ll show you a loop

               
you can do on your own

               
even when I can’t

Mom’s fast

               she does 5 to 10 kilometers

               most every day

               and runs in charity races

               several times a year

               she’s a dedicated runner

               with a lean runner’s body

I’m out of shape now

not sinewy like her

but my legs are longer

so after a while

we find a pace

that suits us both

it’s a thirty-minute run

that seems to go on and on

down long streets

    into a neighborhood

       of houses with lawns

          big as family farms in Japan

             and on those lawns more play equipment

                than any playground in the city of Kamakura

          and next to the houses

       garages for two or three cars

    and porches and gardens

       and huge shade trees

          dropping their leaves
   as we run past

I’m short of breath at first

but get into the rhythm

and the autumn air

and our breathing at last

until we come to a road

where three leaf blowers

blare at once

I sprint

to get by them

sprint

the final leg

but Mom pumps

                                        past

in a blur

and beats me

to YiaYia’s stairs

on Wednesday

I have two tests, one in Chinese

               easy ’cause of Japanese

another in biology

               on prokaryotic reproduction

and a Model UN meeting at lunch

so it’s not until I’ve closed my locker

at the end of the day that I realize

I forgot to prepare poems for Zena

in the library

I pull up a website and quick

print out a poem

I found last week

I arrive at the Newall Center late

having missed the bus I normally ride

and Zena is sitting up

in her repaired wheelchair

arms folded tight like birds’ wings

legs hidden under a blanket

and her eyes are fierce

darting from me

to the letter board

back and forth

I pick it up

u r l-a—
she spells

late, I know, I’m sorry

and I apologize for missing

the workshop on Saturday

but no one told me