You run in the evenings, long after dark. You line the counter with mason jars of fresh pesto and pomegranate jelly. I cost you more than you’ll say—the boxes of needles under the stairs are proof enough. Once, when I was abroad, you called late at night to make sure the world hadn’t broken me yet. But that’s just it. Everything I break, you fix; sometimes with epoxy, sometimes by running past turkeys in the rain, clearing the trail before I get there myself. Someday I’ll make you dinner. Clear your path. Who knows, maybe we’ll get there together.
