Alice was a runner. She had the easy gait of someone with long, beautiful legs. She ran up and down Irish Mountain. She ran on beaches all over the world. She ran many New York City Marathons. When she ran, her skin glowed with sweat. Her body became fully alive with exertion. Her big heart pumped blood and oxygen--and love. Love for the race. Love for us all. Love for life. In fact, after pounding 26 1/2 miles of NYC pavement, when everyone else would have collapsed on their couch, Alice threw a party.
Eventually she had to run a different kind of marathon. Trying to stay ahead of the mutants multiplying inside her and chemotherapy's unpleasant side effects. She did her best. Better than her best. But two years ago, Alice crossed the final finish line. And yes, there was a party to celebrate everything she had done in her amazing life.
We have to keep on running without her. Whether it's an actual marathon like her son Lucas will do in November. Or somehow just putting one foot in front of the other for whatever challenge we face. Step by step. Block by block. Mile by mile.
Sometimes, you turn a corner and find a hill you hadn't expected to climb. Sometimes the sidewalk is cracked. Sometimes your shoes give you blisters. And sometimes you discover that a few of your own cells are mutants.
I never ran with Alice. I didn't have that power. She kindly walked along with me. She still does. As I go on this particular marathon, I carry her love of life.
