The Pyle Inside

The alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m. –

like an air-raid siren shattering my peaceful world.

Startled, I slam the snooze button.

Basking in the warmth of my bed under two soft, cozy blankets,

I struggle to bring myself back to reality.

My mother walks in. “Get up, get up!” she says.

As she flips on my blinding light,

which seems to burn brighter than the sun,

I mumble, “I’m up . . . I’m up.”

I slump out of bed with a long sigh and a great big yawn.

Half asleep, eyes still closed,

I slog through the pitch-black path to the bathroom.

I know every turn, every wall, every board that creaks.

I know this route like the back of my hand.

I reach my black Speedo–almost invisible in the dark, still air.

Still damp from last night’s practice, my suit feels like an icicle against my skin.

I pull on my sweats and T-shirt, slip my hoodie over my head,

grab the wooden railing, and walk down the stairs in the predawn darkness.

My feet hit the ice-cold floor, where the only sound is the creaking of floorboards.

A lone light in the kitchen guides me to the pantry

for a peanut-butter Larabar.

I wash it down with a glass of vanilla soy milk.

Eat, drink, yawn–

I see the headlights of the Murphy’s minivan in the driveway.

I put my milk glass in the sink,

sling my mesh bag over my shoulder,

slide on my navy blue crocs,

and hop into the back seat.

Taiyo and his mom sit in front,

but nobody chats; we’re too sleepy.

As we zoom through empty streets to the pool,

the warm backseat and the peaceful silence soothe me.

We hit green light after green light on quiet streets and arrive by 4:40.

If I’m not early, I’m late.

Other swimmers and I usually get there before our coach,

so we wait in the van until we see him.

I have time to anticipate my long week ahead.

Band test, Spanish final, math homework all run through my head.

But first, I swim.