I glance out my window in the early summer morning as I scan the web for the news of the night. I see a teenaged girl run by in the street, in her early teens, only 13 or 14, getting to know her new body. She is wearing faded short-shorts, T-shirt, and bright yellow Niki’s, out early before the stifling heat of midday. Her ponytail threaded through the back of her cap bobs in sync to the light touch of her feet on the warming asphalt. She runs steadily very fast and effortlessly, sharply different from the ponderous jog of those I normally see, the grim 40-somethings with desperation in their eyes, fleeing from Old Age snatching at them from behind.
Her run mirrors my recurring dream. I am running through the empty streets of an unknown city, amazed at my speed and ease, my 77-year-old legs moving lightly and effortlessly like hers, my breathing normal, unlabored, feeling only elation and bliss. Could this be heaven? I look over my shoulder and see only the empty street behind. No one is following.