Rhythm
Catherine Yeates
My feet hit concrete beneath a blue, cloudless sky and a relentless sun. The air is thick, like the heat has boiled the atmosphere’s moisture into steam, like I’m inhaling sticky, dense mist. It’s as heavy and palpable as a wall that I must break to push myself from a slow walk into a jog. The walls are in my mind, too. They say turn back, what’s the point? Better to remain still because that is what you know—fog and perseveration and dirty dishes and a spot on your skin that you won’t let heal.
I cannot listen to the wall or the fog; they do not give good advice, and I know that movement, any movement, is better than lying in stagnant thoughts.
As I pick up the pace, I pass scorched grass and spindly plants that sway in the sweltering breeze. Deep fissures rend the gray dirt near the sidewalk. Sweat gathers on my neck and forearms, and a drop falls from my elbow to the ground. The furnace in my chest blazes. My legs burn like the sun is inside them, melting through muscle and bone.
Summer is a cauldron, and I stoke its fire, willing it to change me, strengthen me, break the walls, and burn away the haze.
the walls, and burn away the haze.
* * *
The weather cools. Wind whistles over my ears and face, pushing my hair off my forehead. I pick up speed, legs moving faster, propelling me forward with greater ease. My mind still races, filled with thoughts that pack themselves in like bricks trying to rebuild what I broke down.
I cannot let them rebuild. Not when I have new running shoes and habit tracking apps and vitamins and enough of a view through the crumbling walls to realize that there was always so much more outside than in.
Even when the horizon burns gold and red and I lose the sun, I cannot stop. I cannot turn back. The night arrives, and people fade away to shadows moving across the sidewalks. Some carry lights that break through the darkness like swaying lanterns.
As the gloom settles, a new calmness arrives. It’s as though the night draped a blanket over the overwhelming details and noise and loudness of day. The streetlights end; the only illumination comes from the moon. It watches from above as the air flows through me, through all the spaces that are now empty.
Fall is a rush of wind that fills my lungs and blows the fog from my mind.
I cannot let them rebuild. Not when I have new running shoes and habit tracking apps and vitamins and enough of a view through the crumbling walls to realize that there was always so much more outside than in.
Even when the horizon burns gold and red and I lose the sun, I cannot stop. I cannot turn back. The night arrives, and people fade away to shadows moving across the sidewalks. Some carry lights that break through the darkness like swaying lanterns.
As the gloom settles, a new calmness arrives. It’s as though the night draped a blanket over the overwhelming details and noise and loudness of day. The streetlights end; the only illumination comes from the moon. It watches from above as the air flows through me, through all the spaces that are now empty.
Fall is a rush of wind that fills my lungs and blows the fog from my mind.
* * *
Clouds hide the sun, and the moon that shines through reflects an icy light. Before I step outside, I wrap myself in layers: thermals, sweatpants, hoodie, and hat. I add a thin pair of gloves and snap lights to my shoes. The packed snow crunches beneath my feet, the only sound reverberating through the quiet. My pace is slow; sheer speed is difficult, and the sidewalks alternate between clear and buried under a foot of snow.
Despite the challenge, I find satisfaction in being the only movement in a world that is hushed and motionless. Everything vanishes beneath the snow, leaving only outlines behind, removing what is unnecessary. I let snow fall in my mind as well, to cool and soothe the places that still smolder and burn.
Winter is the respite of temporary stillness, a pause.
Despite the challenge, I find satisfaction in being the only movement in a world that is hushed and motionless. Everything vanishes beneath the snow, leaving only outlines behind, removing what is unnecessary. I let snow fall in my mind as well, to cool and soothe the places that still smolder and burn.
Winter is the respite of temporary stillness, a pause.
* * *
The last frost passes, and I pack my thermals away. Water laid down by the winter has soaked into the earth, and the ground is turning from brown to green. The sun reappears, though its power is nowhere near the concentrated might it possesses in summer. It is gentle, if fickle. The storms come so often that mushrooms erupt from the earth, dotting lawns and lining the sidewalks. They have waited, dormant, for a long time, and somehow that is relatable. I am stronger now. Clearer. I am ready to pop out of the dirt with the spring rain.
I check my apps before I step outside; it smells like rain, but they say it won’t start for hours. So I run, and the first droplets hit my head when I’m a mile from home. Water pours down, and I stomp through the muddy pools until I reach the white gazebo in the park. I lean back against the bench, smelling damp wood and earth.
The rain soaks the tulips and hyacinths in the nearby flower bed, draining past their roots to the depths of the ground. I wait until the downpour relents to a drizzle and leave the shelter. My feet hit the sidewalk, one after another, a steady beat. Each step shakes something loose, puts out fires, washes away fog, grinds down walls. Everything I don’t need, flowing back into the earth.
Spring is a path forward.
I check my apps before I step outside; it smells like rain, but they say it won’t start for hours. So I run, and the first droplets hit my head when I’m a mile from home. Water pours down, and I stomp through the muddy pools until I reach the white gazebo in the park. I lean back against the bench, smelling damp wood and earth.
The rain soaks the tulips and hyacinths in the nearby flower bed, draining past their roots to the depths of the ground. I wait until the downpour relents to a drizzle and leave the shelter. My feet hit the sidewalk, one after another, a steady beat. Each step shakes something loose, puts out fires, washes away fog, grinds down walls. Everything I don’t need, flowing back into the earth.
Spring is a path forward.
Catherine Yeates is a writer and artist. Their fiction has been published or is forthcoming in MetaStellar, Wyngraf, and Tree And Stone. They live with their partner, cat, and two rambunctious dogs. Find them at cjyeates.com.