The Levee

Fog coming off the river crept over the hill like a cat stalking its prey.  It was early morning.  And the only sounds she could hear were her footsteps and breath.  She cherished her early morning runs on the river’s levee.

These morning levee runs allowed her to clear her mind.  She looked down at the worn footpath in front of her. Rocks, clay and other runners’ footprints guided her own footsteps.  She saw a huge dog’s paw prints. And then she saw a deer’s hoof prints.  Once she had seen an alligator sleeping on her path.  That was the day she had decided to make her run a “short run.”

The river was in its banks this morning. It had been a dry summer and even the grass on the levee was brown. The heat of the August summer had parched everything.  The sun was starting to peek over the trees to continue its brutal attack. She looked at her watch. Four miles down. She was racing to beat the heat.

Running was her Xanax, Prozac, alcohol and chocolate. The Great Recession had been a massive emotional flood.  Underemployment, stress and losing her family’s health insurance had stressed her own personal levee.  Friends and family had helped sandbag it and had repaired the sand boils. But there were cracks. Many cracks.  The damage had been brutal.

She wasn’t running way from her problems, though. She was running to have the strength to face them.  Action requires energy.  And exercising gave her that energy.  And unlike other drugs, exercise had better side effects.

Sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eye. The sting of the salt reminded her that she was still alive.  Still in the game.  Her lungs burned.

She was running on the river’s levee to repair her own personal levee. And that, she thought, made the effort worth every step.