Run

I run.


Sneakers on, leash in hand, dog at my side. We walk over the stone wall, past the tennis courts, across the dirt parking lot, and into the woods. The trail is over grown, perils hidden by long grass, roots to catch your feet, broken limbs to trip over, uneven ground, sudden dips. I’ve taken my share of tumbles. But most of the time, when I run, I am graceful and fleet of foot. No longer the girl who can’t throw a ball nevermind catch one, no longer the girl chosen last for the team. No, I am a gazelle leaping over obstacles, my feet barely touching the ground, legs long. I run. Like a dream. 

I run.

Past briars and thorns, ducking beneath branches hanging over the trail. My calves are splattered with dried mud and long scratches from the saw grass. I can feel the sweat running down my neck, my hair sticking to my face. I run, finding the new trail, clean and shorn, down through the trees and back around to the power lines again. Second wind. I run. Fast, faster, skipping over clumps of dirt, veering around the mud holes, the sun hot, the air heavy, until at last I hit the field where the girls play field hockey. A vast, green cool down.

I run.

Because when I run I feel more like myself.