Reluctant to crawl out of my warm bed, I remind myself why I'm getting up so early - restarting a tradition of many years past. Throwing the covers off and dressing was easier at the first image, the first memory of what I had come to love, of what had once been a necessity for me to even consider getting out of bed before eight - a morning run.
Not sure if the weather is living up to its expectations, I throw on tights, spandex, shorts. Performance shirt, white tee, socks and my beloved sneakers. I glance toward the clock for a mere reference point, walk out the door, and lock it behind me.
First dilemma was where to run, but the first brisk breeze was far too sweet to resist, so I set off, caring little about a destination, my body aching only to rush with the wind.
Hard asphalt at my feet, beating in rhythm with my chest, breathing slow and even. Cars passing, neighbors leaving. A slight drizzle begins, splashing cool water on my face and mixing with the sweat forming at my temples.
At the round-about now, I turn to the left, toward the bus stop I've grown so familiar with. Looking upward, I glimpse the words "je t'aime Naomie," re-blackened with ink, etched across LAVOIR. Smiling at the simple pleasures, I run on.
Five blocks later, to the right, for the sake of balance. More traffic now, rain still a light mist, now