Laundry detergent.

There was an electricity in the air that reminded me of two summers ago and one early morning run after a flurry of text messages when I set out, one foot in front of the other, to claim my territory over ten miles of the town's streets, and sidewalks. A route I had not visited since at least the early summer, and I claimed it, slower, but steady, for my own. The wind cut into me as I wound my east, buffeted and resolve weary, a test. What came to me was the cadence of three summers gone, and the steeled warrior that waited to be found again, and called to duty. The way back was downhill, and tailwind, and strength and focus and the words looped, if you want to be the po-lice you gotta be thin.

In the stupid movie he said to Stay Hungry, and Lord knows that it's true.

A missive sent at the closing of the tab, of sorts, and afterward I pulled the silicone, black and dusty, out of retirement and took it with me for duty, for the hunt. It had been a long time. The words hit me like arrows, little pieces of acid that penetrated what I thought was immutable, resolute. The afternoon waned, and the drive home was bittersweet in a way that it had not been for a long, long time. How funny it was, to realize how so much remains, despite the will's attempts to excoriate the weak spots.

I focused on the movement of the calves kicking up towards the back of the thigh as I tired near mile five. I thought of a waltz, and how the irregular and unfamiliar cadence could keep the body moving, engaged. My toes dug in towards each other, and it hurt, and I told myself that pain is a good teacher, and helps us to remember how to be strong. Made a mental note of what to do in May, when the goal was 13.1 and not just 6, and how to make it more comfortable for myself. Because everyone has a breaking point, even the stubborn.

Later, later, he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed the space next to my eye that closes when I laugh. Kissed the bone under my chin, my neck, my ear. I turned my body and breathed in a deep and greedy lung-full of his smell, kissing his neck and collarbone and the corners of his lips as a mutinous smile played on my own. What is this road we walk, how do we pretend to know where we are headed when the fog is so thick that even the tiniest light obscures the smallest insight.

All that remains is to be grateful. To cherish (perhaps greedily) the dance while we are able to move, and to not look back on the fools that we have been before. The naivete, the posturing, the needing to prove oneself, to belong. All we can do is soak up every ounce while we have it. The perfect simplicity of imperfection (indulge me).

How easy, and yet how uncommon. Thank You. God speed, good luck. May You watch over us all.