Like Dieresis

 

I started running to spend quality time with my dad. It wasn't for health, or for an end-of-year goal. It was because he would go out every morning with his worn-out sneakers, his watch timing everything, and I wanted to understand what he found there, in that shared silence between ragged breaths.

 

At first, we didn't talk much. Just the pounding of our feet on the asphalt and his sideways glance, as if checking if I was still following him. But with time, words began to emerge, as if the movement loosened things we didn't know how to say sitting at home.

 

 

First half marathon, father and daughter, 2013

 

 

We ran like a diaeresis: two dots over the same vowel, united by the same sound, though sometimes not needed. We were there, just to be together. Sometimes at his pace, sometimes at mine, but always understanding that there was something valuable in accompanying each other.

 

It didn't last long—half an hour perhaps—but that little ritual became a language. I learned to read his breathing, to sense when something worried him, even if he didn't say it. He, in turn, knew when I wanted to talk and when I just needed to run beside someone.

 

 

Last half marathon, together, 2024

 

 

Running with my dad didn't make me faster. But it taught me to stay, not to run from silences, to understand that some things, like the diaeresis, are there just to mark a small but necessary difference.

 

 

 

Author: Pilar Villanueva

Instagram: @suarezmpilar