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“If you could have any job in the world, what would you do?”
Charlie’s question breaks through the sound of music playing from the car speakers. The sun is still low and I squint against the brightness as I drive he and Chanelle to soccer practice. It’s still strange to have him sitting in the seat next to me. A glimpse of him in the car used to require a glance in the rearview mirror, now a slight turn of my head gives me a full view of a boy who is becoming less and less boy every with each passing week.
I glance toward the rear view mirror and see Chanelle gazing out the window. Maybe she’s lost in her own world? Maybe she’s listening to the music? Maybe she’s listening to us?
Charlie’s question followed his previous question, If you had a chance to meet anyone, who would you want to meet? he had asked.
Bob Goff, I had responded.
Me too, Charlie had said.
As I drive through the hills and around the curves toward soccer practice, I consider Charlie’s question. I let me the music fill the car while I ponder. Charlie flips through the radio stations while he waits for my answer. I watch his fingers play over the buttons and see various stations pass more quickly than my ears can hear. Coffee House, The Blend, Hits, The 90s, Kids Bop.
I think I would write, I tell him. I would like to write.
Charlie stops fiddling with the buttons and looks toward me, then why don’t you?
I laugh and feel my defenses rise like a warriors sword, I have a job, I tell him.
Why don’t you just quit your job and write?
I laugh at his simplicity and turn the question on him, if you could have any job, what would you do?
He doesn’t miss a beat, a professional soccer player, he tells me.
I jump quickly to Mom mode and explain how pro players play soccer all the time. They lift weights, they run, they play soccer on the field and off. They don’t just show up to their weekly practice, I tell him, they eat, sleep and breathe soccer.
I’m sure he’s tuned me out by now, but I’m still thinking. I’m still pondering.
*******
I’ve been a runner since I was 11 years old. For 28 years I have been lacing up my shoes and pounding the pavement. When people comment about running or comment that they would like to start, there is one statement I repeat time and time again:
The hardest step in the first one out the door. After that, it gets easier.
Maybe it’s not as simple as Charlie makes it. And maybe it’s not as complicated as I make it.
This is me, today, taking the step out the door.
