Ready to Run.

The idea of beginning AGAIN terrifies me. So much that I would almost rather give up for good or begin something totally new than start over. I felt the pain of this concept acutely a few nights ago when I went for my first 'wog' (jogging so slow you might as well be walking) since the morning after my dog Jackson lost his battle with Stage 5 lymphoma. Jackson was my fur baby, my couch buddy, my sweet boy but mostly my street partner in crime. We beat out mile after mile through the dimly lit night streets of Smithville for years together. And then he was just GONE. It took only 7 days from diagnosis to death for him to be snuffed totally out of my life. Just like that. A blink of an eye really. Out of desperation to keep a part of him close I ran a measly, awful, disappointing mile the morning after we buried him but I have had literally no desire to run since then. Not once in 357 days. Until Tuesday. And all of a sudden.....I did. The desire to run surged up in me, just like that. Out of the blue. It was even late. Between the moments of tv time and bed time in the Goble house. But before I could snap out of it, I was lacing up my sneaks. It scared me. I wasn't ready. I wasn't there yet. I wasn't optimistic about how it would go, what it would feel like, if I could even do it. I felt guilty for wanting to run without him. A million memories of him weaving in and out of the trees ahead of me flooded my heart all at once. Stopping to sloppily lap up water from a puddle and wait just long enough to make sure I hadn't bailed and then he was off again; like a burst of white light--stretching his long legs in front of him. How he would disappear for what seemed like ever and then all of a sudden be right by my side but covered in mud or leaves or some dead stank that he had rustled up. I just didn't know. And what is one to do when they aren't sure what to do? WALK IT OUT. I wasn't sure if I could do it. I wasn't totally sure if I really WANTED to do it. So I walked. I walked through the dimly lit streets, past the barking dogs, past the apartment where we became a family, past that one concrete tiger on the lawn of city hall that always surprised him and made him feel like he needed to protect me, past the empty lot that called his name like a siren every year after the Festival of Lights food vendors had their way with it, past the gazebo where we would stop and stretch; me for too long, him not enough because who stretches before you've actually run, parallel to the tracks down that straightaway where we always breathed hardest but ran fastest because who doesn't want to at least TRY and outrun a train, through the poor neighborhoods and the rich neighborhoods and the middle class neighborhoods, to the track where we would frolick through the sprinklers and where he would inevitably poop on the nights when I didn't have a bag (which was every night). I walked through every single memory. The good, the bad, the happy, the sad. And in some small way, I felt he was there with me. Helping me let go. Giving me permission to move on. Begin again. Start over. Because it's true what they say. About it getting easier someday. And someday always comes. It may come when we least expect but it's always right on time.

Time heals. Wounds seal. And we realize that even though it may not be easy or feel natural or look cute, we CAN still run. And we should.

I miss you down to my bones sweet boy, but I miss ME more. Here's to living the rest of the life I've been given, well, even though it's without you. I look forward to the day when we meet again--because in Heaven I know we WILL outrun that train.  xo W.