Running

Eight years ago, I broke my knee into pieces, and a surgeon put it back together with screws and brackets that look like hardware from Lowe's. It has been eight years since I have asked my left leg to do much more than support me when I put weight on it and walk me around.

It is unflexible.
It burns.
By 9 p.m. most nights, it swells and begs to be released from its duty of standing me up straight.

One day recently, after a session with my therapist, I laced up my sneakers and felt like I wanted to run. Well, I didn't want to; I needed to run. It wasn't a particularly tough therapy session, and I certainly wasn't running from anything; I just felt an unshakable desire to try to run.

I ran slowly, holding my breath for the first three steps, afraid I would hear a crack. It was graceless. Without form or rhythm, I just kept moving forward. Leading with my right leg, the left leg swung out and took longer to reach the ground. Was I hopping? Was this a fast skip? It wasn't the running that I used to do.

I went from one tree to the next. The trail through the woods was soft and squishy from layers of pine needles. I tried to keep my left leg from swinging out, but it had been so long since we did this running thing together that I didn't think my leg could remember how it was supposed to move. And, like most things, I was overthinking the process, holding my breath, and holding onto the fear of hearing it crack and break.

I stopped at the trail's end, where the soft ground ended and the pavement began. It was also where someone might have seen me flailing about and lunging forward like a heavy-bottomed duck. I caught my breath and walked out into the sunshine.

I haven't tried running again, and I don't think I will. I did something that felt terrifying to me and did not break. That was enough.