A New Winter’s Run

by Andrew Elsten

The wind whispers names of things I thought I'd once remembered. They fade into the scenery and I stumble forward.

I plod along on well-trod footpaths near slumbering trees as their canopies fall. Each footfall stamps its memory in broken leaves and stone.

I run.

Forward, I chase out the sickness, the illness, or both. I hurry between rows of oaks and pines, my ragged breath returning as I round the corner home.

The sun shines now as it does most often in early winter: adjacent to its apex, lighting buildings at sinister angles and casting long, intrusive shadows on the trail. Their tendrils grasp upward, writhing toward something warm, threatening to break through the frosted gravel. I shudder and quicken my pace as I cross their threshold.

Intrusive thoughts dive into their swallow's nest. They ruminate a while and pick at bits of dried foliage. They linger, turn in the absence of loved ones, and set off again into the amber.

Pieces of better years sheer off of gnarled oak branches and lilt downward in arhythmic patterns, slowing at the end of their descent. Each lands faintly with a gentle whisper on a carpeted ground, hopeful for an evening's rest.

Twists of wind follow as I round another wooded bend and leaves stir from their exhausted reverie, scattering into mist. The miles lay barren, a mosaic of twigs and fading afternoon light.

Grey.

Sunsets and sunrises share the same weathered face. A creased, sorrowful visage, peering through the opaque with his quiet kind of understanding.

In days like these our accord is most evident. The silent music of the trail picks lazily, discordantly at inaudible strings, harmonizing with the quiet yearning felt by all within its trails.

My strides grow shorter. The clomping of my feet on pavement is quieted by the splashes on asphalt and a dull aching in my knee.

As I slow, I observe people taking footpaths. Perhaps changing the scenery within their own thoughts, seeking out newer, mustier corners to inhabit. I watch the naivete of their passage.

A man wanders aimlessly, looking upward, happening upon life as it exists in these in-between spaces. A child steps off of the wooded pathways directly into liminality and seeks the places never intended to be found.

His mother calls for him silently and he is lost.

Enraptured, I pause, remembering when the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and burning leaves. I saw more passing faces then, more strangers stepping timidly into autumn’s chill. The smoke that lingers in their place is unpleasant. Memories whisp into an opaque mist on the periphery of my vision, drifting in and out of sight unnoticed. The horn of a nearby train calls, its lantern fights ceaselessly against the pittering rain. The sound asks politely to break through the heavy mist of daydream, asking those of us that grow lost in thought to rub the sleep from our bleary eyes and walk out of the safety of dark timbers.

My last few clicking steps are slow, appreciating the passage of time. They understand the inevitability of wear on a fragile vessel. My leg throbs, seeking pause, and I slow to a standstill.

Birds once sang in these trees, leaves once shone in brilliant colors.

The scenery is empty but of we who linger within it. Warm rays overtaken by spikes of frost and a ceaseless brown.

I lean forward and exhale into the biting cold and watch as the vapors condense, coalesce, glisten, and disappear into the atmosphere.

Birdsong echoes quietly, until all is gone but the sound of irregular breathing.

Until recently, I came here with a different purpose: to run and escape the tedious business of day-to-day life. Back when my hair was less gray and running came easy. Now, I pray for tedium, for infant cries, for barking dogs, for a loving hand in the quiet of night when the house creaks.

One day soon, I may come here again and run my last.

Upon my exit, footfalls crunch the broken leaves. The winter sun shines feebly on my back, and I cross the threshold to another kind of winter.