I bought my running shoes yesterday. The clerk had me run up staircases, and around marbled hallways, and elevators, and back down to the shop with each pair. The whole time I felt the exhilaration of dash and dart. So, in the blued afternoon, rain in a steady slick, I ran a cross section of the South Hill, past the mucky leaves, and the yipping dogs, and the smokey air. I’ve got a new voice. It came two days ago. A boy’s voice, I think. Clever, contemplative. Telling me a story.
Sometimes you aren’t chasing, or being chased. Sometimes a run is just a chance to feel your muscles stretch. To let your brain roam. To remember the form of your body — the pump of your arms, and the elegance of your breath.
Maybe a character has found me again. Maybe not. If he stays, if he insists, I’m here. Or, at any rate, I’ll be right back. I can’t run all that far yet.
