The day begins with the faintest edge of a slow swirl in my belly. It builds and grows and begins to take hold as I move between pulling fresh bread from my dad’s oven and returning to my couch cushion to continue typing his bio notes. This has been a long procrastinated, frequently started and stopped project. The sun pushes through the treeline behind me and we work a little while longer, the warm dough sitting heavy in my belly. I sip tea and work the keyboard. Lewie snoozes peacefully, our morning walk nearly two hours old now.

It all gets put on pause as I lean into the grip of unrelenting angst and – finally, as the morning moves swiftly to midday – hit the trail. The hard packed icy trail feels like home under my slow moving feet. I find my groove and settle into the welcome rhythm of a winter run. Hood pulled tightly around my face, cheeks cold, hands warm in my mittens, Lewie trotting ahead and sniffing all the things. I have to watch where I put my feet so it’s 30 or more minutes before I realize the intense blue of this late spring sky behind the sway of skinny maples. I stop and take it in. I’ve been climbing awhile now, but so gradually I hardly notice. I’m paralleling a gorge on my right and a higher ridge on my left, the faint sound of water below. I push on down the trail and through the trees, beginning to feel like me again.

Later I bring an armload of things from the attic and hold them up for my dad, one by one. A bulky grey sweater – This one? Do you want to keep it? Yes, he says. How about this fleece? Yes. Shirt after shirt, all yes. I convince him to let go of the short sleeve button down with two stains on the front. I don’t want my dad wearing a stained shirt – it looks like no one cares about him. Okay, he relents.