I took my dogs out to run today, even though my back has been hurting more than usual: a burning ache radiating across my sacrum, plus a deeper line of pain with certain movements. It makes me feel fragile and old.
I can’t figure out what I did to make it flare up like this. Maybe nothing—a thought which causes a small flutter of panic in my chest, suggesting randomness and chaos.
Still, I took my dogs out to run, while I walked my laps around the perimeter of our property, along the tree line. It snowed last night, and the temperature is rising today, causing the snow to become dense and wet, collapsing in slippery clicks with each step, making me feel jarred and unsteady. I walk slowly.
However, after just one lap, my left hip begins to seize: a pinching pain in my hip flexor, along with a burning needle piercing my left SI joint. Stubbornly, I begin another lap, determined to do at least four. But, before long, I have to admit defeat. I whisper aloud to myself, “Ok, this is just how it is today,” and head toward the house.
I limp heavily along while the dogs bounce around me like pinballs. The pain is bad. There’s nowhere to sit except the wet, icy snow, and there’s no one else home. The house looks so far away, I start to cry.
I eventually make it to the front porch and lower myself with exquisite relief onto the wooden bench. Still crying, I watch the dogs race and chase each other through the woods and snow, grabbing each other’s ears and tumbling head over tail.
And, I find myself laughing, just like that.
The tears dry on my cheeks as I keep laughing at the dogs’ silly antics, and the snow continues to melt, dripping off the roof, forming puddles in the grooves between the porch stones. The dogs run over and in unison, tongues on high speed, lap up the icy cold melted snow, before darting off again, bounding and tumbling across the brilliant expanse of white.
Introverted, overthinking, and mining every corner for beauty, meaning, and connection, Kristi Joy Rimbach (she/her) writes poetry and creative nonfiction about her fumbling human journey. Her work can be found in Here: A Poetry Journal, The Write Launch, The Orchards Poetry Journal and elsewhere. She lives in a small town in Connecticut with her husband and their kids.
Substack: @kristirimbach
Instagram: @kristijoyrambach