Running Against the Wind

She has never been good at pacing herself.

Jogging down between the oaks on the soft, almost-muddy road, the wind carries snowflakes that collide with her silently, apologizing as if they can not see where they are going. She brushes them off absently and notices that the wind seems to be changing directions with every turn in the road, following her.

It has been months, maybe eight. Her body feels small and warm as it lays in line with the weather-worn boards of the dock, the brave pelican beside her standing proud on his carved post; he has held out for one more harsh winter. The round, sweet rolling of the water lulls her hurried thoughts as they had when she was much younger and more easily upset. Sometimes she wonders if perhaps not much has changed since then, since that first sad summer on this old dock when only the sunsets and bonfires sustained her waning fire.

But she knows it has – everything has changed. Like the lake, her shores have been deserted and refilled with days of smoother sailing, the sun has shone and the rain has fallen, time has started to make its mark in subtle ways that only she can see.

Once, over by the collapsed neighoring dock, they had tossed an old fishing rod into the water and struggled to make it sink to the bottom. Now she cannot find it in the exposed sand bottom: it is probably buried in a dark, mucky grave, forgotten til now. Everything seems gray and the promise of spring is null in void with the white rain that falls now into the churning water. She turns to run home and does not look back.