Will and I push our bikes along the narrow alley between the house and the fence of the house next door. We’re dripping wet from a three-mile run we’ve just made in Asbury Park. The run is every Thursday evening at seven on the boardwalk and conducted by the local YMCA. We’ve ridden the mile or so from there back home. The air is soft and soothing.

Rosemary, my wife, is already home. She’d driven back. We’ve invited good friends who run with us to eat at our house. She’s come home to set the table and put things out. Albie and Linda, with whom we run on Monday and Thursday evenings, are stopping to get the pizza. Bobbie, another friend who is joining us, is with them. Will, our younger son, and I have enjoyed riding slowly through the darkening evening and look forward to showers and good pizza with friends.

As I push my bike past the dining-room window, I just catch the movement of Rosemary coming back through the kitchen. I park my bike near the trash cans. Will parks his along the fence leaning over the marigolds we’ve planted. He rushes in past Rosemary to get his shower started so I can have mine after him. I figure I’ll help with anything Rosemary needs.

Journals and Letters