Running

I’m running.

Feet hitting the earth one beat slower than my heart pounds. Laughter bubbling up inside me. My cheeks, my nose, my fingers, are cold and numb. I feel the icy air slickly behind my teeth more than I do on my tingling skin. Leaves swirl around my feet, whispering the secrets of the trees that loosened their grips enough to let them go.

The sun casts shadows through the branches, splaying across the peaks and valleys of the grass. The illuminating rays hold no partiality, lighting up even the smallest of nooks. Beckoning me to follow their example.

And I’m running. And my heart beats with childhood joy, tainted, mingling with adult burdens, adult worries. And I could be any age. But I feel eight.

Running, exploring my world. The world that is my front yard. And chimney smoke lingers in the air, having billowed from neighbors’ houses for hours, or decades. My fingers strum along the chain link fence as I run, vibrations tickling my arm. And my mother is on the porch, watching. Smiling. And as she walks inside to check on dinner, I close my eyes and begin to twirl.

Arms outstretched, spinning. Vaguely wondering if maybe I’m the one standing still while everything else performs pirouettes around me.