I’m sitting in the local running store in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. It’s past Christmas, but evergreen reefs still decorate the small shop windows. A few people mill the cobblestone walk outside.
"So where are you planning to run this marathon?" the owner asks, as he takes a few boxes from the shelf.
"Oh, actually in Zambia, in southern Africa, I'm working there currently."
“Wow! You know that’s a place no one wants to live. It safe over there?” he replies.
“Well, yes.” I say a little too bluntly.
“Hey Gwenn, he’s running a marathon in…uh...Zimbabwe!”
I’m nervous to hear that first reaction. It’s usually a good indicator of the conversation to come.
Doesn’t matter – he sends me off with discounted running shoes and a free t-shirt, and I'm grateful for his good will.
I meet up with a friend on the other side of the river. She’d been doing jump squats in the cold while waiting. The sun is getting lower, and we set off down the canal. The crisp air fills our lungs and propels our bodies, and we crash through frozen sticks and streams. We talk about all the people in our lives now, and how we’re sad to start saying goodbye in the year to come. I’m grateful to come home to leaf-strewn trails and life-long friends that ask the good questions.