The end of summer is everywhere

The end of summer is everywhere; the birds are grown, the leaves are beginning to turn, and in the morning I leave the house in long sleeves. The canal paths are still baked hard, and the water high with green weed, but I can already see the grooved dirt giving way to slush, and the water icing at the edges. The drowned supermarket trolley has grown a green skin. They have cleared the summer growth from the paths, widening them to walkers but revealing empty cardboard boxes, chicken bones, piles of old clothes, suitcases with gaping zips. It’s the time of year when the light plays tricks on you, growing golder earlier in the afternoon, so you lose sense of time. 

Like so many others, I have misplaced six months. There is almost exactly half a year between my sister’s birthday and my own, and only three days after hers, I left the office for the last time, set up my monitor on my kitchen table, and put a picture on Instagram with the caption, “The new normal.” In the picture, the door is open just a crack, the garden still winter-dark, with wide patches of mud in the grass. My birthday is soon, and there is a bracket around the time that has passed. You don’t have to count it towards your age, the internet laughs. It doesn’t count. Be kind to yourself. Survival is enough. 

This morning, a kind osteopath told me there was nothing structurally wrong with me. He rolled me on my side and drove his full body weight into my hip. “These new routines we have,” he said, readjusting his mask under the bridge of his glasses, “we sit more, we’re sedentary, your body has finally noticed it.” 

I have run most days of lockdown, sometimes as far as 14 kilometers, some hard mornings as short as three, or two. The cold March and April mornings were somehow the easiest. They were bluest, and the strangest, my one permitted outing into the defrosting London parks filled with other runners, taking long steps around each other. I was proud of myself for finding a new routine with my gym closed. I have always been fearful of running outside. I’m scared of getting yelled at, and getting lost, in equal measure. I bought trail shoes to navigate the cambered paths. 

Even the hottest runs were satisfying, especially the mornings when I rose too early, and had to run through 27 degree minutes. I ran myself out on the slight hills of north London. Even on the slowest runs, I could leave things behind on the paths: the parents I can’t travel to see, the books I couldn’t read, the things I couldn’t write, the horrible spiral-shaped unknown. 

When I’m really injured, or sick, a part of me steps aside, turns around, and accuses me of faking. Even when the thermometer reads hot, and I cough my guts out; even as every tread sends a shock of pain up my back, I question the veracity of my weakness. It’s because I’ve faked it too many times, I know, and spent too many hours patting my own lazy back. “You’re not trying hard enough,” I accuse her. She knows it’s true. 

Everyone I know is moving. Selling, buying, moving, fleeing. Everyone is counting down to 2021 as if on the stroke of the midnight, when the year expires, coronavirus will too, and we’ll all get a shiny new do-over. I’m not moving, or fleeing, but only because I don’t know where to go, or how to get there. It’s not just the virus, it’s the uncertainty, and the utter impossibility of making and executing a plan. 

My osteopath told me I could try running again, and so I did. I managed two kilometers before the pain came back. It’s enough to leave some of it behind, but it always catches back up. 

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