Saturday, September 7, 2013


Hilde’s scar is 27 years old.

She got that scar the day before my wedding. On our last run. Though it wasn’t our last run. It was my last run as a single lady.

We have continued to run for 27 years.

The day before my wedding we planned one hour. To run. There were so many things to do. Before my wedding.

Somehow we knew things were gonna change and we needed one last run.

We ran down Leland Street, past the graffiti and corner store that sold gin in pint bottles. Crumbs of glass glittered the sidewalk. We ran toward sky and beach and a great unknown.

I’d stood up in Hilde’s wedding and now Hilda was to stand up in mine. The next day.

Along the lakefront, back behind the golf course, we ran on top of the breakwall, a jumble of concrete boulders. So many times before, and this would be our last time. Maybe.

The next time we would both be married ladies.

So we ran and talked. The whole time I was wondering what changes the next day might bring, while navigating the uneven wall. Then Hilda slipped.

I can see it in slow motion, though I don’t think I really saw it.

At first I didn’t think it was so bad. A zigzag gash in the knee. We tried to staunch the blood with cold lake water. The blood ran down her sweaty shin into her sock.

I was determined to do this—our last run.

Hilda got up and finished. The wound continuing to bleed, the skin separated with glimpses of bone. None of us knew what would happen.

She limped down the aisle the next day.

Hilde’s scar is now 27 years old.

We continue to run and contemplate the future. There are so many unknowns, we have no idea what will happen. Yet, we celebrate the anniversary of that white, unfaded scar.

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