running

After three long years, I step into my old shoes. I feel the warm humidity hugging me close, the gentle slap-slap of my ponytail on my back, caressing my shoulders. My feet swing ahead on the curved road, grabbing, releasing, marveling. I free my arms, feel my breathing slowing. I hear the birds, the high wind whistling faintly, the crunching of dry grass. Salt slowly gathers on my arms, in my eyes as I sweat in gratitude for this meditation through movement. I watch the sun blaze out over the lake, clouds violently trying to robe her. I smell my citrus shampoo, a neighbor’s barbecue, the muggy exhaust from passing cars and sweet honeysuckle. I see lush greens, maniacal sprinklers, and baby ducks learning what is natural to them. I am also learning what is natural to me, buoyed by a rhythm beyond my control. I am arriving at something close to heritage, or at least a continuation. When I’m going fast enough, I can hear my heart louder than anything else, feel it slamming against my ribcage, relentlessly living past my insistence it is broken.

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