Tadow

I walked miles every day for months. My route only vary by length, not route. I dropped weight as quickly as FKJ & Masego dropped Tadow. I can see the route in my mind's eye. Walking through Ravenna Park over the converted commuter bridge, past the beautiful and expensive houses that I will never live in. Crossing 25th at Kidd Valley and meandering a block before turning back down toward the Burke-Gilman as it skirts the old workhorse Safeway. Turning up the hill that abuts the graveyard where much of my family lies in repose. I'd turn up, still following the cemetary border and cross 35th and walk back through there, passing the Met Market before heading north and heading north. Sometimes I would go as far as Nathan Hale, but rarely. Sometimes I'd stop at the QFC and get something to drink, but not often. Always, I would be trying to make sense of what was going on in my life, with Jenny. Searching for logic about her living, her suffering, her frame of mind. And losing her. Forever. Never did I come to resolution. Not once did I feel sanguine.

Even so, truth be told, those walks helped me sort it. Like writing about what transpired as it happened, walking came in a very close second for processing all the things. I had friends who kept me company on those nights through those many month on the other end of the line. Rain, snow, heat and gray, they were my walking sticks, and I leaned hard. Unlike my heart, they never gave out, never skipped a beat.