Early Morning Memory

There is a soft tap on the door. I pick up my CD player, and exit my room. We leave the house as the sun spreads its orange glow over the waking city.

The car ride is short, and we enter the vast empty parking lot, where, one day, I will get behind the wheel of the car for the first time. I follow him down the ramp, across the street, and through the turnstiles. I am already hitting my stride, the Beatles singing to me as we walk.

My stride isn’t as long as his, but I mostly keep up. My lungs complain as we climb the historic hill and towards the king of beasts. He is awake today, and his roars alert the others of his presence. Around the bend we continue and the male ostrich decides to squawk and dance. I laugh as we pass, though refusing to break my stride.

Onward to the back and past the flight cage that has stood over one hundred years. I hate walking by here when the pavement is wet for my tennis shoes always try to slide from under me with a mind of their own.

We do a figure eight past the sea lions, and greet the river otters who tumble towards us to say good morning and look for their breakfast. The smell of animal, stale beer, and ice cream mix together as we pass the food pavilion. We pause briefly at the water fountain sculpture and take a sip of the lukewarm water. It’s just city water, and doesn’t taste different from what comes out of our tap, but gives me the strength to finish the final stretch.

We pass through the gate again — father and daughter — bidding our zoo friends goodbye until the next time.