The morning after the Funeral and Reception I got up early,
threw my running clothes on and laced up my shoes. I had not run in over a week. I needed a physical release. I needed a mental release. I grabbed my iPod and walked out the door. I was so tired I was not sure that I
would even be able to run a mile.
I jogged lightly down the street and the tears began to flow. Five minutes into the run I was fully
crying but I kept going. Ten
minutes into the run my heart was beating so fast in my chest it scared
me. I stopped and bent down
putting my hands on my knees. I
was sobbing right there in the middle of the main street in my parents’
neighborhood.
Should I turn back I
wondered?
I closed my eyes. Fuck that. I am going to do this.
I ran 3.6 miles that morning and I cried the entire way. But I did it. What I did not realize that day was that I had officially started my run through grief, a run that would last me the rest of my life. There would never be a finish line but the run would become less impossible as time went on. And the run would become a necessity as I traveled through grief and my new life.
