Running

Elizabeth Jane Prendergast fell down a staircase in 1988 and never walked again.

(But this entry will not be about an absence of steps)

Exactly a year later, I was born, and became an Elizabeth J too.

My childhood is sprinkled with the sound of her hundred silver bracelets tinkling as she wheeled through her house, painting rocks and writing poetry together under the company of a millions stars, comparing her light strawberry hair to my auburn curls, and..oh...I'm starting to forget.

On a horrible day when I was 17, I lost her. We all lost her. And since then, I haven't stopped running.

She was my namesake. The only other member of the family with red hair. And with every step I take, I feel like I am redeeming her in some way. Making up for the fact that she spent my whole life sitting. It's something in my head, a way of dealing with the fact that she wasn't at my graduation, didn't see her third grandchild born, won't be at my wedding. And so, I run. And I run far. Last May I ran a marathon. Last year I ran over six hundred miles.  Yesterday I ran ten miles. This week, I will run thirty.  I run distances that don't make sense, that are almost masochistic. Sometimes, I can't eat for a day after I run because my body is at such a high level of distress. I run when I'm exhausted, sick, hung over. Marathon training is a mess of ice, Advil and self doubt.

But within all that pain, there is a tiny piece of hope.

I will take every step she never had the chance too. I will make up for the miles that were robbed from her. Maybe it is crazy; but this...this is  why I run.