No, I'm Fine, Thanks.
Time slows down during an adrenaline rush, or so I'm told. A 9.8 second hundred meter race feels like forever to the runners weary musles. A mother looking for a lost child feels five minutes as an hour. Though I've never been an amazing runner or any type of athelete in general I do know I got grounded once at eight for leaving my mother's side in the mall. She always drones on about how it was an hour or more depending on her mood during the retelling but to me it felt like five minutes of juvenile freedom.
Until I was sixteen the miraculas happenings of time eluded me and never caught me in it shiney web. Everything flowed as it should have from the moment I was born on June 21st. My mother recalls every Mother's Day at exactly 6:17 in the morning, despite the fact it is a weekend, how it took her a grueling 27 hours before she brought me into the world and the first day of summer started with my cries. This I know wasn't a slow down of time or a trick of her imagination because during every check up Dr. Watamin likes to drone on and tell me how she was there the whole time. Snapping on rubber sanitational gloves with flurish because she assumed there white chalky presence would put me at ease she spends the whole thirty minutes or more talking while I bob my head in agreement. All I ever think about however is how my dad once stretched one of those same gloves over his head, covered his nose and blew it up untill he looked like a roster, a deformed, albino roster but a roster none the less.
My dad always tried to get me to laugh with odd tricks and foolish antics. It worked until I was nine and a grade four boy named Mathew Markio pointed out that my 'old man' was the dreded silly. My father standing there with a straw out of his nose and honking the horn of our old yellow vocwagan van missed the whole exchanged and just grined at me with too white teeth flashing. After that whenever he would be horrificly silly I would place fist on my childish hips and tsk as I shook my head in that grown up way. Dad only let this throw him off for a few second before giving a over dramatic pout with his bottom lip hanging way to far out for comfort and I would start to giggle. If the pout didn't get me there was always a backup plan and he would start, in a singsong, to call me 'little mama', giving the voice an italian lilt and waving his hands into the air wildly. Sometimes I didn't laugh just to see him do it. My mother never approved. Her voice would rise above my dad's in a scolding manner and adult hands would be placed on adult hips. 'Little mama' my dad would exclaim again and my mother would send a wink in my direction.
I'm not italian or anything I know of. As the statue of liberty proclaims in New York 'Give me your tired, your poor'. That is my family, from many different Nations but from all the same famer walk of life they produced me. My mother likes to say we are American through and through and since we don't talk to her side of the family and dad's lives over on the east coast there is no one to contradict her. I just like to imagine all the nations of Europe and South America met in
and that is all I have time for right now.
Until I was sixteen the miraculas happenings of time eluded me and never caught me in it shiney web. Everything flowed as it should have from the moment I was born on June 21st. My mother recalls every Mother's Day at exactly 6:17 in the morning, despite the fact it is a weekend, how it took her a grueling 27 hours before she brought me into the world and the first day of summer started with my cries. This I know wasn't a slow down of time or a trick of her imagination because during every check up Dr. Watamin likes to drone on and tell me how she was there the whole time. Snapping on rubber sanitational gloves with flurish because she assumed there white chalky presence would put me at ease she spends the whole thirty minutes or more talking while I bob my head in agreement. All I ever think about however is how my dad once stretched one of those same gloves over his head, covered his nose and blew it up untill he looked like a roster, a deformed, albino roster but a roster none the less.
My dad always tried to get me to laugh with odd tricks and foolish antics. It worked until I was nine and a grade four boy named Mathew Markio pointed out that my 'old man' was the dreded silly. My father standing there with a straw out of his nose and honking the horn of our old yellow vocwagan van missed the whole exchanged and just grined at me with too white teeth flashing. After that whenever he would be horrificly silly I would place fist on my childish hips and tsk as I shook my head in that grown up way. Dad only let this throw him off for a few second before giving a over dramatic pout with his bottom lip hanging way to far out for comfort and I would start to giggle. If the pout didn't get me there was always a backup plan and he would start, in a singsong, to call me 'little mama', giving the voice an italian lilt and waving his hands into the air wildly. Sometimes I didn't laugh just to see him do it. My mother never approved. Her voice would rise above my dad's in a scolding manner and adult hands would be placed on adult hips. 'Little mama' my dad would exclaim again and my mother would send a wink in my direction.
I'm not italian or anything I know of. As the statue of liberty proclaims in New York 'Give me your tired, your poor'. That is my family, from many different Nations but from all the same famer walk of life they produced me. My mother likes to say we are American through and through and since we don't talk to her side of the family and dad's lives over on the east coast there is no one to contradict her. I just like to imagine all the nations of Europe and South America met in
and that is all I have time for right now.