“Dad, can we run the road in the morning?” my youngest son asks from top bunk of his bed.
He ran the treadmill tonight. He benched a thirty-five pound bar with ten pound bumpers on each side after dunking on a basketball hoop hanging from a downstairs closet door. He’s been boxing me—hits that make a true discomfort—evert since he heard the Mike Tyson fight-hype.
He’s motivated.
“It’ll still be dark,” I inform.
“That’s alright,” he assures.
“What time should I get you up?”
“Six!”
To be honest, I forgot. 6:02, I hear his voice from hallway’s length. “Dad…”
I rise and go to him.
“Can you get my clothes?” he asks still from top bunk place.
“Did you set an alarm?” I ask.
“No.”
“Well you woke yourself up right on time!”
Unlike me, he’s not forgotten.
6:12, sky’s still dark. He’s ready, and so we go. Out the door and on the road down lightless path dead ending at a pasture gate. We descend to creek crossing then climb the steep far side, winded in effort of ascent until land levels off and we coast in pace to gate.
Gate touched, turnaround point reached, we catch our breath, walk for a minute. We look at the stars. He points and speaks to the brightest one.
We begin again, faint downward slope of ground until steep of the hill to creek’s crossing. He asks on white shape in road. It is a puddle from rain the day before.
We cross the creek and from fall finish climb again until reaching of our drive.
He is happy. So am I.
Without him, I wouldn’t have; but together we did.
He motivates.