Running Home

I’m not typically a fan of pavement, but being able to run on something flat and predictable is a welcomed gift. Since I sprained my ankle last month, I’ve been wary to run on trails, and the pavement up high is still demanding of caution for a tender foot. But down here, at the bottom of the basin of California, it’s all level ground.

The route to the high school is one I know best. I can take a lap around the school and head back to get a few miles in. When I approach the football field, there are maintenance guys cleaning up after the firework display, and they’ve left the gate open. I haven’t run stadiums here since our last 5 am summer volleyball training, but today seems like a good day to take advantage of the opportunity.

Up and down  and up and down the reliably spaced steps, and as I finish I can almost feel a high five from my teammate, Cindy. By now the maintenance truck is leaving, and they close the gate before I can get there but I don’t want to make a fuss, so I head towards the main campus. There’s a new swimming pool and gym area and solar panels over the parking lot, but the music room remains untouched. I slip out through the front gate, watching the marquee change as I pass by. 

School Starts 

August 15^th 

Past the high school is the cemetery, and I turn in, running down the narrow roads. It’s particularly quiet right now, but there are usually many other people running, walking, or pushing strollers around the squares of grass that cover the bodies of the city’s past residents. Undoubtedly this is strange to some. I find it comforting. 

I don’t want to be buried – there are much more interesting ways to decompose – but if I must, I would want life to continue around me with people going about their lives. My cells don't need lots of space or quiet to break down. Honor my life with your own livelihood. Let my stillness be contrasted by your activity. Take another lap around our grassy block.

Chris would understand this, so I always stop by. I say hello and crouch down, pursing my lips to blow the dirt and grass off of his headstone from the recent visit by the lawnmower. I remember when we designed his marker, trying to make it perfect. We debated over the right photo, the right quote, the right words. There was almost a sense of excitement in crafting something for our brother and their son, like picking out just the right gift when you say “Oh, he’s going to love it”. But the underlying sadness lingered – the heaviness of realizing that this stone will likely far surpass him in age.

I take a moment to catch my breath, say a few words to him, go into a plank on the grass at the surface while he's parallel below. Hold until my body starts to shake. Hold a little longer. And finally let go. 

As I rest my eyes match the endless but focused gaze of his photo. I am familiar with a pair of bright, round, green eyes staring back at me, but these are through a different iteration of genetics, telling the story of someone who seems both unbelievably close and unbearably distant.

With a soft-spoken goodbye I transfer a kiss from my fingers to his enameled photo and am on my way. As I leave, there are three men filling in the dirt of the most recently dug grave. Somewhere, a group of family and friends is grieving – it is their turn to bear the weight of knowing human mortality. But here, the men and I are cheerful under the gentle morning sun before it becomes too intense to tolerate. We greet each other with smiles and good mornings.

At the intersection, I tell a man who looks like he’s going to church that he looks nice, while across the street a Sikh man I've seen before and another man missing his right arm wait patiently on the corner. When the light changes we cross paths, sharing more smiles and greetings. I begin to move faster, my pace growing more steady, my footsteps becoming more sure, as I weave sidewalks together to make my way home.