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to run

I have been running for a year now. One tough mile, then climbing the eight flights to our apartment door is my routine. I still feel nauseous doing it, but hours later I am floating a few inches off the ground. Sometimes there are children walking with grandparents on the path that I take. They run alongside me, and I laugh thinking about that scene in Rocky. Their feet eventually drag, they pause as I keep going and on a good day they feel like cheerleaders.

I run in the snow and ice, the rain, the mud. Sometimes I take a break for a few days, rolling a guilty eye at my sneakers and a shiver runs down the back of my arms.

The one thing that never changes is the people that I pass. They carry this suspicion, even paranoia. My footsteps are like alarm bells to them, as faces crane, eyes widen, teeth are bared behind clenched lips. I wonder how threatening my clumsy footsteps and muttered swearing can be to them. Terrifying, it seems.

Every once in a while I pass another runner, and t…

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