Ponderosa

The kitchen floor is a torn and filthy vinyl sheet. It was put in place as a temporary measure something like 15 years ago. Whenever I see it, I wonder why I'm still here. I drove into Worcester tonight for fried chicken and beer. I've driven up and walked down those streets so many times often wondering why it is  I'm still here. And now it's hotter than it's supposed to be, getting dark, and a thunderstorm is rising up.

I was thinking about that time my marriage disintegrated and how I decided to train for a hundred mile race as a way to cope with it all. When race day came, it was very hot and far away and after twelve hours of running and slogging I hadn't peed despite consuming lots of water and electrolytes at every opportunity. My hands swelled up. I became preoccupied with the notion that my kidneys were shutting down. I thought about quitting when and if I made it to the half-way point. Something in me didn't want to do that despite my kidneys complaints, my terribly aching feet and my twitching cramping legs. I will die out here before I quit, I said to myself. Once I had permission to die, I felt lighter and I was soon able to pee again. They were right, I needed to let go. 

I was remembering that sick, broken, physically tapped out feeling tonight. How hard it was to stand up from the chair I'd fallen into beyond the finish line, how my urine was more brown than yellow, how difficult it was to walk back to my hotel room less than a mile away, and how lying in bed offered no relief due to the cramping in my calves that lasted all night. 

There was no one there to celebrate my achievement with. I remember the scent of ponderosa pine and a whole new kind of loneliness. 

I was driving tonight thinking that maybe it's time to do something like that again.