Are you still up on the mountain?

I can see you ahead of me, running, and I try to keep up.
You pull ahead, and disappear in the trees.
Rounding the switchback, I catch a glimpse of your legs, a green flash of shoes.

Motion blur of trail, trees, rocks and roots.
Gliding down, gracefully, fast — we are made for this.
Adapted.
Finely tuned.
Talking of adventure, and all I can think of is love.

I can tell you’re not pushing hard, but still pulling away from me.
So much stronger.
You wait for me anyway. And encourage me, as always.

Water rushing out of the hydration bladder and onto the ground as you fumble to wrestle it back into the pack, pregnant with liquid.
All of us, laughing.
You run back to the hose, and I get to wait for you.

Living life, now.
Grit.
Children.
These are the themes of our conversations, as we live life, now, and then you don’t.

Are you still up on the mountain?
I forgot to say goodbye.

(For Chad)