Turf

It’s easier to listen when one is alone and cold. When one has no warmth to speak of or cling to. When one is out of hope, at least for now.

I ran here, to this field, not even dropping off my briefcase after work. I was breathless by the time I arrived but didn’t break a sweat because the temperature is perfect and forgiving, the kind of temperature that eases itself between your knuckles but doesn’t make you shiver. Not yet.

Andy died five years ago today. He would have been twenty-two, like me. He would have had a good job, like me. Spent too much money, like me. I ran here because I almost forgot it was today.

But now with my ears to the wet ground, I remember. I remember everything. His hands, his stride, his voice, the way he drove, the way he wouldn’t let anyone get through the day without enough to eat. He was 6’3” and 190 pounds but he always shared what he had. I didn’t. I still don’t. Maybe that’s why he’s gone.

I can hear him through the turf today. He’s saying, “Give until you can’t,” something he always said, and I can’t, Andy. I can’t.