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The Path

Sheila Squillante

You’re a jogger and happy. Amazed by your own stamina, the give in those knees. A boy on a man-size trike rides by on the sidewalk. You keep jogging. No need for wheels. Everyone else jogs past you—a pack of sinewy happiness—but you don’t mind; don’t feel lapped though clearly you are. Keep running. Sunshine blasts from every edged lawn. Every lawn’s lush and green and people practice yoga, tai chi. Fat, happy people facing “downward dog.” Copper bowls and prayer wheels and a humidifier outside the split-level on Bluebird Drive. The road is the path. You’re amazed you can still breathe. Run to the temple at the end of the cul-de-sac. Buddha on the front stoop. The path says enter. Says soak your wrists in the green copper bowl of happiness.

Sheila Squillante

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