cool down. ‘You’re doing so well.’
‘Whatevs, as the young people say,’ I replied. ‘Why so early today?’
‘I wanted to show you something,’ she replied, the gold edging on her clothes and her trainers shining clearly in the gloom of the September morning.
‘What’s that?’ I replied.
She turned towards Brighton, to the place we were heading towards, and smiled again, not speaking for long seconds. ‘That,’ she said quietly and full of pride. I followed the line of her long, lithe arm to where, over the sea, over the Pier, the world started to glow. Peach, pink, amber, were rapidly bleeding onto the horizon, paving the way for the sun to make its entrance.
It felt like the world was beginning from scratch and I was there to bear witness to it. I was watching one of life’s miracles I regularly took for granted: the sun rising.
I gasped.
‘You’ve never seen the sun rise like that, have you?’
I hadn’t. I’d never been outside and watched the sun rise, I’d never sat up all night in the open air and watched the breaking of light in the distance. It was different than watching it rise behind glass, but I hadn’t even done that very many times. How was it possible that I had never watched a new day being born au naturel?
‘This is how I always think the day starts on the Rose Petal Beach,’ Mirabelle whispered.
‘You’ll have to tell me that story one day,’ I said.
‘One day,’ she said. ‘But not today.’ Instead of offering me the story of the picture that hung in her living room, she held out her hand to me. I took it, her hand was smooth and soft, not at all the hands of a woman who spent her days washing up, cleaning up and forgetting to use hand cream, like me. I was envious of her hands, like I was envious of her hair. She had grown her beautiful,shiny black hair to the middle of her back without chemical straightening because she had time to take care of it properly. I washed and twisted my hair every two weeks and wound it back off my face because that fitted in with my lifestyle. She lavished care and attention on her hair that made it one of her most outstanding features. Mirabelle hauled me to my feet. The strength of the sun seemed to suddenly flow through my bones, tingling my limbs back to life. Upright, I felt strong again, capable of running to Brighton Pier and back. This was what she’d meant, of course. This was the fun part. Not the joking with her, talking with her, the being with her – it was the finding me in all of the daily busy-ness of my life. It was carving out a few precious minutes to be able to be Tamia. I wasn’t mother, wife, self-employed consultant, woman, Hove resident, non-graduate, breaker of my parents’ hearts when I was running. I was Tamia. Unlabelled, unique, complete. Being myself was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
Mirabelle gave my hand a determined squeeze, and I squeezed back.
We ran towards Brighton, away from our homes, chasing the rising sun. Holding hands most of the way.
This is the bench I collapsed on that day. I stop here often if I am walking into Brighton to remember that day and how it marked the turning point in my relationship with myself. That day, I started to believe I was important, I had the right to take care of myself as well as my family.
I’ve been aware of her walking past several times but not stopping until this trip, when she slides onto the edge of the bench furthest away from me.
I do not look at her. I cannot look at her. Instead, I pull my legs in closer, hugging myself tighter. I’m not sure I want to talk to her. I know I don’t want to talk to Scott, but that’s because he’s always there, the whole of my existence is full of him, but not so muchwith her. She was so important to me, though. She brought running into my life. And running was something that was purely for me. Mirabelle had started my own little revolution in my mind, my heart, my life. Now she seemed to be
‘Whatevs, as the young people say,’ I replied. ‘Why so early today?’
‘I wanted to show you something,’ she replied, the gold edging on her clothes and her trainers shining clearly in the gloom of the September morning.
‘What’s that?’ I replied.
She turned towards Brighton, to the place we were heading towards, and smiled again, not speaking for long seconds. ‘That,’ she said quietly and full of pride. I followed the line of her long, lithe arm to where, over the sea, over the Pier, the world started to glow. Peach, pink, amber, were rapidly bleeding onto the horizon, paving the way for the sun to make its entrance.
It felt like the world was beginning from scratch and I was there to bear witness to it. I was watching one of life’s miracles I regularly took for granted: the sun rising.
I gasped.
‘You’ve never seen the sun rise like that, have you?’
I hadn’t. I’d never been outside and watched the sun rise, I’d never sat up all night in the open air and watched the breaking of light in the distance. It was different than watching it rise behind glass, but I hadn’t even done that very many times. How was it possible that I had never watched a new day being born au naturel?
‘This is how I always think the day starts on the Rose Petal Beach,’ Mirabelle whispered.
‘You’ll have to tell me that story one day,’ I said.
‘One day,’ she said. ‘But not today.’ Instead of offering me the story of the picture that hung in her living room, she held out her hand to me. I took it, her hand was smooth and soft, not at all the hands of a woman who spent her days washing up, cleaning up and forgetting to use hand cream, like me. I was envious of her hands, like I was envious of her hair. She had grown her beautiful,shiny black hair to the middle of her back without chemical straightening because she had time to take care of it properly. I washed and twisted my hair every two weeks and wound it back off my face because that fitted in with my lifestyle. She lavished care and attention on her hair that made it one of her most outstanding features. Mirabelle hauled me to my feet. The strength of the sun seemed to suddenly flow through my bones, tingling my limbs back to life. Upright, I felt strong again, capable of running to Brighton Pier and back. This was what she’d meant, of course. This was the fun part. Not the joking with her, talking with her, the being with her – it was the finding me in all of the daily busy-ness of my life. It was carving out a few precious minutes to be able to be Tamia. I wasn’t mother, wife, self-employed consultant, woman, Hove resident, non-graduate, breaker of my parents’ hearts when I was running. I was Tamia. Unlabelled, unique, complete. Being myself was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
Mirabelle gave my hand a determined squeeze, and I squeezed back.
We ran towards Brighton, away from our homes, chasing the rising sun. Holding hands most of the way.
This is the bench I collapsed on that day. I stop here often if I am walking into Brighton to remember that day and how it marked the turning point in my relationship with myself. That day, I started to believe I was important, I had the right to take care of myself as well as my family.
I’ve been aware of her walking past several times but not stopping until this trip, when she slides onto the edge of the bench furthest away from me.
I do not look at her. I cannot look at her. Instead, I pull my legs in closer, hugging myself tighter. I’m not sure I want to talk to her. I know I don’t want to talk to Scott, but that’s because he’s always there, the whole of my existence is full of him, but not so muchwith her. She was so important to me, though. She brought running into my life. And running was something that was purely for me. Mirabelle had started my own little revolution in my mind, my heart, my life. Now she seemed to be
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