I just finished my morning run at the cemetery, where I used to run when my daughter was little. Death is present here, but so is life. The sun is glimmering through newly awakened leaves on old trees.
I walk past a man, sitting in front of a stone. He's scrubbing it with a yellow brush.
That could have been me. It could have been my name on a stone, for 18 years now. But for some reason, death didn't collect.
So I get to see my daughter grow up, and go on morning runs.
