25.04.04
0200 hours

Thinking a run 1:30 in the morning empty street, Enfield dark and quiet, no cars and certainly no people. Thinking of Lynda ("wear a whistle!") and of advices given, decisions made, of What Can Happen When Women Go Out Alone especially At Night. What were you doing out?

April. Thinking these weeks of five years ago, of the story I've been telling since, of Eastertime of dark night spring. Once rehearsed line by line it is written in the bones, the pained but resigned face, the nod and bow of head, the sigh. Breathe. The last time connotes both ways. For so long it was the last time in a string of befores waiting for next time, waiting for the thought: last-time-this-happened. Now it is the last time, a finale, the showstopper, though neither of us knew it then. I can look and say, There - that was the Last Time. There will be no others. I wipe my hands on my jeans and step onto the sidewalk.

And yet, standing under the shower wondering whether the weather means long sleeves for this resumption of the late-night run. And yet, every time I lace my shoes and check for the whistle I wear. And yet, every time I leave the door unlocked and step onto the walk, there is a next time and it will be tonight. There is the guest, uninvited but expected: it will happen again. Tonight, this morning, there will be footsteps behind me. I hear them each time. There are shadows and shapes in streetlamp circles. I love running at night. The streets are silent, the dark cool and gentle, nothing but breath and footfall and the odd bird up too early. And yet. For the most part I feel safe; other than J's sensible concern over potholes and twisted ankles, I should have nothing to fear. That's what scares me most: that I should have nothing to fear, but must anyway. That I have no defense should Something Happen. I fear most the inevitable injury that awaits after Something Happens. Why was I out at such an ungodly hour? Did I let anyone know where I would go? Why would I go out alone? Why was I out at all? Don't I know that some crimes are not crimes between midnight and five in the morning? This, I fear at two a.m. This gives me pause. I stay in.

x

1954

Then dirt scared me, because of the dirt
he had put on her face. And her training bra
scared me—the newspapers, morning and evening,
kept saying it, training bra,
as if the cups of it had been calling
the breasts up—he buried her in it,
perhaps he had never bothered to take it
off. They found her underpants
in a garbage can. And I feared the word
eczema, like my acne and like
the X in the paper which marked her body,
as if he had killed her for not being flawless.
I feared his name, Burton Abbott,
the first name that was a last name,
as if he were not someone specific.
It was nothing one could learn from his face.
His face was dull and ordinary,
it took away what I’d thought I could count on
about evil. He looked thin and lonely,
it was horrifying, he looked almost humble.
I felt awe that dirt was so impersonal,
and pity for the training bra,
pity and terror of eczema.
And I could not sit on my mother’s electric
blanket anymore, I began to have a
fear of electricity—
the good people, the parents, were going to
fry him to death. This was what
his parents had been telling us:
Burton Abbott, Burton Abbott,
death to the person, death to the home planet.
The worst thing was to think of her,
of what it had been to be her, alive,
to be walked, alive, into that cabin,
to look into those eyes, and see the human

-- Sharon Olds