The Water Under the Bridge
Feet pacing the ground, picking up speed as the path slopes downhill. My sneakers rubbing against my ankles letting me know they are getting just a little too tight. I don’t mind though. I keep running, telling myself to push it. I clutch tighter to the wireless bud in my ear so it doesn’t fall as I pace faster up the curve of the hill. The strong smell of saltwater brushes against my nose and cools my burning cheeks. The sun is barely in the sky, a bright cast of orange and red being pushed down by dark blues. I turn off my music, pull my earbud out and shove it into the tiny pocket on the inside of my pullover. I enjoy hearing the quietness of the waves crashing against the shoreline. The rhythm of my feet marching to the sound of nothing- it is music. I moved into a sleepy New England town with old roads paved of chipped cobblestone and all metal fixtures rusted away from years of saltwater. I moved out here late September after my husband died. I grew up in the Suburbs, but I craved country. He left me enough money to do that. He always wanted me to live my dreams. That is why I am forcing my body up this hill, as every vein in my body is begging me to stop, as my legs are shaky, and I taste blood in my mouth. I want to be just like him, better than me. It should’ve been me.