paul·a·ver

I’m into my taper for this year’s Chicago Marathon… Just 12 more days. Besides reconnecting with Dan, what am I most looking forward to?

In the shower, I slap soap on my shoulders and wonder to myself, “I have a marathon in just a few weeks. How, exactly, am I gonna get in one last long run?” “Hot, hot, hot!” Evan yells from the dining room. “I told you to wait,” I holler back, “Drink your orange juice.” Graham bursts through the bathroom door, slams open the toilet lid, and does what he has to. “I’m gonna flush,” he says at the same time he flushes. “Hot, hot, hot!” I think to myself.

“When I was just a little girl in Portland, a man told me I was an optimist,” my grandmother tells me, asking if she’s told me before. I don’t remember if she has, but I give her the only answer a grandson can, “No. I don’t think so.”

Evan’s breakfast is still on the table next to half a glass of milk. At the decibel level of a mountain rockslide, he is bounding down the stairs to the basment.