Before, After & In-between

Two- Before

Saturday mornings always begin the same around here. First, the sweet smell of baked cinnamon filters into my room, invading my dreams and has my mouth watering before I even open my eyes. The aroma so strong I imagine the cinnamon being held right beneath my nose. I breath it in deeply and stretch, flexing my feet up and down, rolling my ankles side to side, they crack in stiffness. A tight tinge of pain radiates up my calf and I wince, reaching down to rub the aching muscle. Next, music plays softly from downstairs, the sounds of bacon sizzling on the stove, the coffee machine heating with a slow roar. And finally, because he's so loud I'm sure our neighbors can probably hear him, my dad. Cupboards shutting, chairs scraping, a heavy foot like a bull in a China shop. I couldn't sleep in even if I tried.

Yes, today seems like every other Saturday, only it's not. It might very well be the most important Saturday of my entire life.

When I pull myself from bed and stumble into the kitchen half-awake and clearly annoyed my parents both look at me and smile. A little to eagerly, a little too forced and it sends the flutter behind my ribcage up a notch.

"Could you be any louder?" I drawl, "its 8 am on a Saturday."

"Morning Katy Bear," my dad says looking up from his newspaper. The only newspaper that still gets delivered on this street because he refuses to give in to the twentieth century. My mom stands next to him shoveling freshly made banana cinnamon pancakes onto his plate. Every Saturday morning it's like walking into an all you can eat continental breakfast at some fancy hotel. Pancakes, waffles, bacon, eggs, the crispiest crunchiest hashbrowns you'll ever eat and fruit, so much fruit that were still picking at it days later. I wince lightly at the earliness of the day and beeline for the coffee pot, grabbing my favorite chipped mug I made at croc-a-doodle when I was twelve and fill it to the brim with coffee.

My mom is already making me a plate before I've even managed to sit down, "Sorry Bear, but it's a beautiful day, why sleep it away?"

"Because I like sleep, actually I love sleep."

She rubs my back gently pulling out the chair next to me. Her cream apron scattered with new stains old stains; it looks like an art project gone wrong.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" she asks biting into a crispy piece of bacon, crumbs falling from her mouth onto her plate.

She asks me like we don't all know what the agenda for today is, like we haven't been waiting months for this one specific day, this one specific moment.

I can't even come up with something to say because truthfully, I don't know how I am going to busy myself while waiting. How I am going to occupy my brain, my body, the incessant tightness in my chest.

"No matter what happens, you know we are so proud of you right," her hand runs softly over my unruly hair.

I nod quietly, saying a silent prayer that we won't be disappointed. Because even though she says this I know how devastated she will be if it falls through. I know how empty we'll all feel. How empty I'll feel. Running a race with no finish line in sight.

 Ignoring the fear that everything I've worked for could possibly be over today I shove my face full of pancakes.

Eventually I manage to get out of the house and from under my family's watchful eye by going for a run. The only real thing that can calm any nerve storm in my body, the beating behind my chest today has been borderline unnatural. I picture a butterfly trapped in a cage batting its wings feverishly in panic, the flutter pangs against my ribs painfully and I worry my chest might explode. It's not as warm as it looks, the sun fights against the new spring air and goosebumps rack my arms when I step out onto the sidewalk. I consider going back in to change but think better of it when I notice my dad watching me from the front window. The pressure looms and without hesitation I break free. I don't follow my usual path, instead I cut through the park at the end of our cul-de-sac. The dew filled grass soaks my runners almost immediately staining them a yellowish- green. I try not to be annoyed by it and keep running, the water peaks in and out between the homes and trees that line the shore, the last remnants of snow barely visible and the promise of a new season. And with that I push harder, faster until I am through to the other side. Small children laugh and scream on the swings, while their parents sit on the bench sipping coffee. Carefree, unaware that I am running for my life at the moment. That I am running away, running to, just running, running... hopefully for something.