I remember seeing her a few mornings a week, on my way to school. A woman running. I remember her not because she was running, of course. Running in itself is relatively commonplace. No. I remember her because of her age.
She must have been in her eighties. Her hair was as white as a dandelion, and stuck up on her head just as sparsely. She was tiny, bony, wizened; her skin was sallow and sunken in around her eyes. And she was running. Not quickly. Not quickly; but steadily. Every time I saw her she was making her way steadily down quiet streets and up hills. And only ever in glimpses. I'd see her running in the wing mirror of my mother's car, or out of the corner of my eye through the playground chicken wire fence.
I always marvelled at her. At her age. At her strength. I wondered how she did it.
And then I wondered what happened to her. I hadn't seen her in years. I wondered if she was still running. I wondered if she was still living.
Today I saw her.
Older (of course), than ever.
And walking, not running.
But still living.
I want to be like her.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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