by Bella Rum
We walked this morning. It was in the low twenties. I found my spray bottle that I used to mist the ferns this summer. It was on the porch and the water was almost frozen solid.
H walks with me now. I think he wants to make sure I do it. I’m a slacker. He says he enjoys it, but I know that his usual workout is much more vigorous than my two-mile walk. He does all kinds of crazy (crazy to me) stuff, and he doesn’t always have time to get it all in if he walks with me.
He recently started jogging the second half of our walk. He takes off and I watch his younger-than-its-years body move with ease. His long legs take each stride without pain or hesitation. I love the few minutes before he tops the hill and I lose sight of him. I can see the connection between him and my son who runs marathons. H used to run seven miles every morning to work when he was younger.
I’m happy that he’s getting back to running. I think he’ll work up to a respectable distance. He talks and jokes with my son about it. I wonder if on some deeper level he felt the desire to start again because of our son’s enthusiasm for running. H is not a talker and this gives him something in common with him.
I finished my Christmas cards and they’re in the mail AND (drum roll please) H cleaned about twelve inches of space around his laptop and all the piles in the floor have disappeared. I don’t know where and I won’t ask. I don’t really want to know. I’ll let you know how long this last.