Last year our walks were long. I planned our routes along the hills to get my blood moving and my legs feeling strong and long. I liked the shady hills best- the ones by the river and the brick houses and big trees. We could walk forever.
This spring we avoid the hills. I have no interest in strong legs or moving blood. We walk the low, marshy path. Reed bores of it after twenty minutes and goes off into his imagination (you can tell because he converses with himself using two or three different voices). And then he bores of that and begins to futz with the stroller, pulling the shade down over his head, dragging his shoe over the wheel. And my belly feels clunky and achy long before I feel invigorated by a “good, long, walk.”
I realize, now, that our walks will never look the same from year to year. Long gone are those first, autumn walks where Reed slept wrapped against my chest and I stroked his tiny head and let my mind wander where it would. And gone are the walks where little hands reached out to touch the first leaves and flowers, and I could tell the baby boy about those leaves and flowers, and he would listen and watch it all with care. But there is something quite right about this fleeting world, something good. And I hope I am right there in it. Not anywhere else.