Non-fiction flash by Lauren Jonik
Morning Light
I rise before my parents or younger brother. I must be out of the house promptly by 7AM. It is summer and I don’t have to do this. I want to. I’m ten years old in body. Dressing quickly with shades still drawn, I tie my sneakers, brush my long hair and inhale. Moments later, I fly down the hill in front of our house, feet aloft with the breath of a new day. My energy is boundless.
From across the street, a voice tinged with a British accent rings out, "Hello, Lauren." Mrs. M. waits for me by her slate blue mailbox that reads "Lindisfarne." Mr. and Mrs. M. were the only people on the street who named their modest middle class home. I watched the stenciling fade with the weather a little more each year.
Mrs. M and I greet each other, but don’t talk a lot for the rest of the walk. I try to think of things to say, but feel unsure of what to talk about, my shyness and boldness forever colliding. We begin the mile-long journey. The sun strolls up the length of our backs. Go straight, turn left, walk over a small one lane bridge, round a curve, go around a curve in the opposite direction, walk straight up a long hill that seems daunting every day, yet every day I conquer it because I distract myself by looking at the wildflowers that grow along the side of the road.
I gather a small bouquet of blue cornflowers and try to pluck the rough, resistant stem of Queen Anne’s lace. I’ll give them to my mom. She acts surprised each day, despite the routine. Her gratitude never seems less than sincere. I won’t understand that this is her gift back to me until many years later. She places the day’s flowers in a plastic cup that sits upon the windowsill above the kitchen sink. "I can look at them while I do dishes," she says.
When Mrs. M and I reach the summit of the hill, we stand before the great oak that is at the crossroads. I turn and look back, seeing how far we’ve come—but only for an instant. My skin warm, my legs alive with motion, I am eager now. I proved what is possible.
Mrs. M makes a joke I don’t fully understand, but know enough to laugh at anyway. She is in her mid-60s with gray permed hair and glasses. She wears white socks with her tennis shoes, shorts and pastel blouse. My perception of age is blurred by my lack of years. She seems old, but strong—she never pauses during our walks and sometimes, moves along faster than I do. Wildflowers don’t distract her. The garden in her backyard is bountiful and enough to satisfy. I’ve just begun my search and don’t know the treasures at my feet. I want to wander, to run, to climb. But, each morning during this summer, I gather the magic of the morning light and walk on. Home is still just a half a mile away.
I rise before my parents or younger brother. I must be out of the house promptly by 7AM. It is summer and I don’t have to do this. I want to. I’m ten years old in body. Dressing quickly with shades still drawn, I tie my sneakers, brush my long hair and inhale. Moments later, I fly down the hill in front of our house, feet aloft with the breath of a new day. My energy is boundless.
From across the street, a voice tinged with a British accent rings out, "Hello, Lauren." Mrs. M. waits for me by her slate blue mailbox that reads "Lindisfarne." Mr. and Mrs. M. were the only people on the street who named their modest middle class home. I watched the stenciling fade with the weather a little more each year.
Mrs. M and I greet each other, but don’t talk a lot for the rest of the walk. I try to think of things to say, but feel unsure of what to talk about, my shyness and boldness forever colliding. We begin the mile-long journey. The sun strolls up the length of our backs. Go straight, turn left, walk over a small one lane bridge, round a curve, go around a curve in the opposite direction, walk straight up a long hill that seems daunting every day, yet every day I conquer it because I distract myself by looking at the wildflowers that grow along the side of the road.
I gather a small bouquet of blue cornflowers and try to pluck the rough, resistant stem of Queen Anne’s lace. I’ll give them to my mom. She acts surprised each day, despite the routine. Her gratitude never seems less than sincere. I won’t understand that this is her gift back to me until many years later. She places the day’s flowers in a plastic cup that sits upon the windowsill above the kitchen sink. "I can look at them while I do dishes," she says.
When Mrs. M and I reach the summit of the hill, we stand before the great oak that is at the crossroads. I turn and look back, seeing how far we’ve come—but only for an instant. My skin warm, my legs alive with motion, I am eager now. I proved what is possible.
Mrs. M makes a joke I don’t fully understand, but know enough to laugh at anyway. She is in her mid-60s with gray permed hair and glasses. She wears white socks with her tennis shoes, shorts and pastel blouse. My perception of age is blurred by my lack of years. She seems old, but strong—she never pauses during our walks and sometimes, moves along faster than I do. Wildflowers don’t distract her. The garden in her backyard is bountiful and enough to satisfy. I’ve just begun my search and don’t know the treasures at my feet. I want to wander, to run, to climb. But, each morning during this summer, I gather the magic of the morning light and walk on. Home is still just a half a mile away.
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Lauren Jonik is a writer, editor and photographer in Brooklyn, NY. She is the co-founder and co-editor of TheRefresh.co. She loves wandering cities, meandering through nature and reading. Follow her on Twitter: @laurenjonik
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