I follow, remembering. My routes take me around la ville, reminiscent footfalls in every stride. The stones and cement, the grass, the gravel--they all call out to me: look, here's where you decided to run the first time you ran by choice; look, here's where you used to meet her halfway; look, here's where the raspberry man lives; look, here's where you talked incessantly about Virginia Woolf; where you fainted during a run and never told anyone; the hill where you sat down in the middle of the road; the street you walked home on in the pouring rain; the seventh grade P.E. teacher's house; the prom run; the day they convinced me to sneak through the fence behind the movie theater; the Niner and the noon shadow; run after run after run.
Though memories blur past, I recognize that I am no longer running away. My gait is longer. Pace faster. I am stronger. My feet sense this change in purpose. Running, once a method of fleeing my personal demons, now a merry chase. I am running to. Not running from.
A sharp inhale brings the familiar sting, through my ribs, pushing my heart out of my chest. One day I will run. Not from, not to. Just run.
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