When I pull up at the curb, I stop and turn off the car. “I want you to know that what you said at Will’s, about not having to understand how it all works? And how we can be confident knowing that everything is happening the way it should? That really helped me.” I brush my hand against her cheek. “I was starting to feel like I had this huge responsibility. Now I think just accepting it is enough.”
“I’m glad. There will always be more of what we don’t understand than what we do understand.” I lean forward and gently touch my lips to hers and she responds by kissing me harder. I put my hand on the back of her neck and pull her closer, kissing her fiercely. I really love this girl, I think and it fills me with happiness. She pulls away after a few moments and says a little breathlessly, “I’d really love to continue this, but I have to meet up with my project group. Do you want to come over after dinner to study?”
“Yes … to be continued?”
“We’ll see,” she says with a wink. I watch her walk across the lawn to the front door. Ostensibly to be sure she can get inside, but really because I just love watching her.
On the way home, I decide to go for a run. The weather is fantastic and I don’t want to get out of shape now that soccer is over. Nobody’s home when I get there except the dogs, who greet me like I’ve been away for years. I take the stairs two at a time up to my room and change into shorts and a t-shirt and my running shoes. Ralph and Speck get excited when they see my shoes, thinking perhaps a walk might be in store for them. They run in circles around my legs, almost tripping me in their excitement.
“Sorry guys, maybe later.” They look so disappointed when I leave them inside that I decide to take them out after my run as a cool down.
After stretching and some warm ups, I start a slow jog on the road that leads out of town. Even though it’s warm, the air has a bit of an edge, like the cold is just waiting to return. The earthy smell of fallen leaves and cut grass fills the air as people get home from work and take advantage of the nice weather to mow the lawn one last time. I’m feeling strong and loose, so I pick up the pace and decide to make this a long run. When I get to the outskirts of town, I turn onto the road that goes past the lagoons. The sun is dropping low on the horizon, turning the sky orange and gold. I look over at the field and the tree where Will crashed his car and see that it has a big gash in its side. But also, what I didn’t notice that night in the dark, I see that it’s covered in blazing red leaves. The light from the setting sun makes it seem like the tree is on fire, glowing gold around the crimson leaves. And I also see, or maybe just imagine, another light. Through the mostly bare trees it seems like there’s a soft glow coming from where the star-gazing rock sits on the shore of the lagoon. A feeling of incredible well-being washes over me. I don’t stop to look, I just keep running. I don’t need to see it to believe it’s real.
I hear honking overhead and look up to see a flock of geese pass over me. They’re flying in a V and for a few moments, the lead goose flies directly above me, in sync with my pace. Then I reach the end of the road and turn left. The geese keep flying, heading south, and I run on, towards home.
About the Author
Tracy Richardson wasn’t always a writer, but she was always a reader. Her favorite book growing up was A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. In a weird way that book has even shaped her life through odd synchronicities. She has a degree in biology like Mrs. Murry and without realizing it she named her children Alex and Katie after Meg’s parents.
Tracy uses her science background in her writing through her emphasis on environmental issues and metaphysics. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her doing any number of creative activities—painting furniture, knitting sweaters, or cooking something in the kitchen for her vegetarian, carnivore, and no-carb family. She lives outside of Indianapolis with her husband and two children and their Jack Russell terrier, Ernie.
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