[Imagine the Rocky theme in your head]

I just wrapped up week 5 of my renewed exercise campaign. My forty-and-fabulous campaign. Although I'm fairly certain I will reach forty-one before I reach fabulous. But then I will just change the campaign slogan to forties-and-fabulous. Either way, it's a goofy slogan.

Much to my own surprise, my exercise of choice these past weeks has been ... running. (Stop laughing, Dad.)

Now why would I go and do a thing like that? I wasn't sure myself the answer to this question. But then I recognized that I happen to be surrounded by a particularly wacky group of people - let's call them runners. People who run even though there is absolutely nothing chasing them.

I live with one. I am married to one of these runners. He likes running. For real. In fact, he likes it so much that he has signed up to run the Austin marathon. Again. He's looking forward to it. Wacky, right?

My sister-in-law is also a runner. I've never explicitly asked her, but I'm pretty sure she likes it, too. She runs marathons. Plural. In many ways, I want to be like her - because she is very cool. Today is her birthday. And what did she do on this day, her birthday? Yeah, she ran. Dear Sheila, you are an inspiration to me.

I am also related by blood to one of these people. My brother. He runs. In fact, you could say that the man is a veritable running fool (right, Dad?) But he's the kind of runner I can really relate to. The kind of runner who looked at me on the eve of his running the half-marathon and said, with a sigh and a pained expression on his face, "I hate running." But did that stop him? No way - the man ran his 13.1 miles, and then threw down some DoubleDave's.

So, you may say it was inevitable that I would be drawn into this insanity. Peer pressure. The need to belong. The desire to be a contender in the annual Villa Sabine Mini-Triathlon (oh yeah!)

But here's the really weird part: I like it. Maybe not the running per se, but there definitely is something about it that is very nearly enjoyable. It could be the challenge, the solitude, the endorphins, the satisfaction of reaching of a limit and then pushing past it, the almost imperceptible thing called progress.

Yeah, I like it.

And the grief goes on

Two days from now, it will be one month since we lost our old man kitty. I still tear up when I come home and he isn't at the door waiting for me food. Sometimes I think I hear him down the hall. I even miss his caterwauling (well, that not so much.) In these past few weeks, each of us has traveled varying distances on our own winding paths of grief.

It is a painful thing to watch this grief wash over your child. I will never forget the night before he left us, the night we all came to realize that his life was slipping away. How we cried together. How we fawned over him. How we longed to ease his suffering. My son sitting at the table eating his dinner and bursting into tears at the sound of our little friend's pained cries. How my heart nearly broke at the two mingled sounds.

My own pain at the loss of him has eased in this time. Age and perspective and the cares of this life intervening to dull its effects. Until the sweet girl comes out of her room at night, tears in her eyes, with the now anticipated words on her lips ... I miss kitty. My own pain is further diminished when I consider the magnitude of hers, when her broken heart is written there, on her face, in her voice. And then a fresh pain, the pain of a mother, as she utters the words that pierce me - I just want him to come back. If only I could give that to her.

But I can't.

So, I do what I can. I lie with her in the dark and hold her. I let her cry. And I cry, too. I let her talk. I suppress my own desire to speak, to fix, to coax the tears away. I stroke her tear-streaked face, and listen to her pour out her grief. I listen as she tells me she doesn't think there is another kitty in the whole world like our kitty. And I agree. I listen as she lays out a plan to honor and remember him. At the appropriate time, I remind her of that silly thing he used to do and elicit a shared chuckle amid the sobs. The pain is still there. But grief once shared becomes a lesser burden. And sleep comes.

She showed me today the drawing she made and taped upon her door....

... and I wondered if her grief would ever end.

And then she speaks of the future, of the kitties which are to come.... And I am reminded that life goes on, that though the heart does not forget, it yet was made to be healed. And healing slowly comes.