With my mom's arthritis, she'll never run even a half a mile
with me, but last week, I carried her for five. No, more like I took her for
four, and she pushed me to go one more. Because of course, that's what mom's
do. Maybe it's all the talk about the
American Dream in the convention speeches the past few weeks, but I was thinking a lot about this
whole life journey on my run that day.
There's no simpler way to say it.
My mom's childhood sucked.
A little dirt never hurt anyone, and in my opinion, it's a
sign of good play. Of course, they weren't really talking about the mud on a
cheek. It was a deeper mess. Caked on so hard, maybe it never really comes off even
with vigorous scrubbing. No, I imagine
no matter how far she traveled from that childhood, she always carried that
dirt with her, a heavy burden.


