My father, my sunshine

I probably shouldn’t post this, because there are people who would be horrified if they knew that I ran on Sunday.

I might be the clumsiest person I know.  Last Thursday, I dropped something heavy on one of my toes.  I still don’t understand how I managed to put my foot underneath the thing I dropped.  My toe swelled up and turned purple, badly bruised.  I canceled everything that required walking for the next two days.  I also complained a lot.

On the third day, she rose.  (Ahem.)  Three days after I hurt my toe, on a hot and humid day, I ran the 5-mile Father’s Day race in Central Park.   Running usually feels better than walking, and when walking hurts, running wins easily, hands (feet?) down.

This was the first race I’ve done in hot weather. Scared by the flyer I picked up about hot-weather racing, I prepared by adding salt to everything for a couple of days, in addition to drinking more water.  I ran the race at a slower pace than usual, and I felt fine at the end.

But the last mile was hard.  I wondered why I was running when I was so hot.  And then I started to sing Dad’s favorite song, over and over, inside my head.  Ten years ago, when Dad was dying, I sat by his hospital bed, held his hand, and sang it over and over again to him.  That song got me through the last mile.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are gray.
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

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