I am my father's daughter. I strike up conversations with the cleaning lady who talks of Mexico and I imagine planes descending on brown valley runway. I yell at the ones who think they can get away with anything. My voice rings from mat-padded wall. Oh, no, you can't, not anymore. I find joy in the repetition of step-step-step-step-step... on pavement and treadmill track in morning piercing light, in afternoon bluster, in dusk.
Every Friday feels nostalgic, or maybe I'm just too quick with copy/paste, or overtired enough to let the fall air rattle me. But this Saturday afternoon speeds by like the gusts against the clouds. I am here. I am happy.