LUCES

My dad’s shoulders
are distinctively hunched,
a hunch belonging to a certain type.
Runners.
The distance kind.
The move-till-you’re-dead,
make-your-lungs-melt,
13-miles-a-day,
distance kind.
That’s my dad,
thirteen miles a day since 12.
Gotta get on the trail even when he feels like hell.
Thin as a rail with a noticeable hunch.
Dad.
He doesn’t think of it much,
but I do.
We all do.
That’s how he’s recognized.
Shoulders slowly sloping?
Dad.
See someone else like it?
Dad?
Young, old, fast, slow,
doesn’t matter. Has the hunch,
Is that Dad?

Stubborn as a mule,
he moves like one.
Refusing to change,
stays hunched like one.
Never wanted daughters
but had two,
the only way to bond he knew was sports.
Because he’s a runner.
Yup, that’s Dad.
And he made us run, too.
Eight years old,
go to the elementary school,
and run.
Distance.
With two kids who loved dolls and gymnastics.
I cried on lap two,
and he told me to suck it up,
then galloped away with that familiar hunch.
Because that’s Dad.
Callous and cold,
running every single day
because running’s all he knows.
Just hunch himself forward
and go.

There was no leeway at home.
He raised his girls tough.
Made them play sports because they couldn’t run.
Hated, actually,
but he didn’t want to hear it.
So, when they complained,
he simply said deal with it.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Seriously, hush!
Sprained ankles,
bruised bones,
broken digits,
shredded skin—
nothing ever mattered to him.
He could run distance,
so anyone could do anything.
And looking back,
I think it’s true
that there’s really nothing no one can’t do,
for if he runs daily
a half-marathon with visible glee,
then anyone can do anything.

Maybe that’s why he always tries.
No matter what.
Maybe that’s partly why he’s hunched.
Determined, distance-runner shoulders…
Those are Dad’s, and as I get older
and see others with them, too,
I understand.
What a curious clue…
People so headstrong,
their heads are too heavy to hold,
and they end up hunched.
Just like Dad…
To him, it doesn’t mean much,
but to us, it does.
Bent like a bull,
maybe that’s why he’s so short-tempered.
Disagreeable.
Stiff.
Rarely hugs
and would never dare kiss.
Callous, stony, and misunderstood,
forever mourning the dreams he never could
light up with life.
Animalistic man
with a sugar-sweet wife…
Why could he never just ease up for fun?
Was his hot-headed passion fueling him to run?
Making him drop his head low
and slowly grow hunched?

Yes, hunched man,
glowering down,
I spent more time staring into your livid eyes
than I did at my own glimmering back in the mirror.
I spent more time staring at my ceiling
with nothing to do
than playing outside,
talking on the phone,
seeing my friends,
or doing homework.
Grounded again.
Why?
Because Dad.
Dad’s mad.
Why’s he mad?
Because that’s Dad.
Goes for a run and feels better,
but before that?
Watch out.
Tiptoe.
Don’t be loud.
An inky hatred crept up in my heart
for this hunched man called Dad.
Decades bound by chains
will drive anyone mad,
but you know what?
He hated me, too.
Of the numerous things I cannot count
are how many times he shouted it out.
Spat it right back.
Declared it first.
And I can’t tell you which one hurt the worst.
All I know is I definitely cursed him,
but only in my mind.
Cursed his hunch.
Cursed his life.
The day he kicked me out,
I cursed his name, yelled goodbye,
but froze in the door as my sweet mother cried.
What a marvelous start to year 18…
I promised Mom I would never leave—
and would seal my lips ’till the end of time.
That day, I felt I lost my spine,
but really,
I just learned to hunch.
Bend down, compromise, and not care too much.

Then, like a blustery, post-storm, sunny day,
karma almost swept him right away.
Twice.
Careful with curses in this life…
That wicked, wacky hunch
was struggling to run,
and right before my eyes—
That’s Dad.
Blue-skinned and breathless—
That’s Dad.
No air for seven minutes—
That’s Dad.
Thought I only loved him because—
That’s Dad—
and had to,
but maybe there was more to it than that.
Dad…
I’d have to tell school I’d be absent because—
Dad…
The doctors know him for his hunch—
and double-dance with the Devil.
He’s a hospital legend.
Some modern Pheidippides,
on some sort of level,
as no one ever survives.
He really makes everything possible in this life…
Is he actually a roach?
Would he live through a nuke?
Hopefully, we won’t have to know,
but he survived prolonged cardiac arrest times two,
had his own dead dad say it’s not his time,
then came running back to continue this life.
And you know why?
Runner’s heart.
Thirteen miles a day.
Resting pulse 46.
Some modern Pheidippides…
A heart so strong and slow,
it almost killed him twice—
plus that clogged artery…
Now, it’s totally fine,
and now,
by some legendary miracle,
I don’t hate him.
But it wasn’t until I watched him fade
that I finally understood his ways.

Now, his hunch is deeper,
and he complains of losing muscle—
wonders why he survived that
just for everything to get worse.
Wonders why he’s even still walking earth
if walking only gets harder.
If running only gets harder.
If running one day will have to stop.
He swears he would’ve just gone back then
if he knew he wouldn’t always run,
but as he bobs and shakes his hunched head,
disappointed with what’s left,
I fake a smile and fight back tears,
disappointed with how he’d wish away all these years
where I actually got to know him—
where I actually learned to love him and that stupid hunch,
refusing to acknowledge the thought of what
it would’ve been like if he died
when I still had all that hate in my heart.

Sure, it’s unbelievably hard,
but he still runs.
Every day.
Still continues to deepen the hunch
despite the tearing tendon,
the severe limp,
and the complete inability to touch his toes.
Got COVID a week after his last dose of chemo,
and coughing up a lung,
a few days in, he still tried to run.
How incredibly, unbelievably Dad…
A month and a half later,
following him on the trail,
watching as he takes off like that,
his distinct hunch leaving me in the dust…
Dad…
How very, very Dad…
No one else is hunched like that,
and no one else runs like that.
Like Dad.
Possibly the most sensitive man to ever walk this earth—
er, run, he’d prefer—
at the end of today, he was much paler than normal.

For the past eight years,
I always worry and try to be kind,
finally understanding he’s just a sensitive guy.
Finally seeing that he’s misunderstood—
knowing I’d turn back time, if only I could,
to truly suck it up and actually run.
To spend more time staring up at that fearsome hunch,
as it’s only getting deeper.
And will only ever get deeper…
That’s why Mom wants to move,
because she knows all about the hunch, too.
And it took until today to finally realize
that that’s why she’s so stressed all the time.
That that’s why she sneaks away to cry.
Because of that stupid runner’s hunch
on that stupid running man
who never thinks enough
but runs all he can.
Yes, it took until today to finally see
that that stupid runner’s hunch
bobbing up and down
way up there before me
actually means so much
that I’m prematurely mourning.