Walking- 4 Parts

By: S. Flanagan

When I walk with my mom, I walk slightly faster. Maybe it’s because my strides are longer, which would make sense because we step to the same tempo. When we walk together, it is almost never in Pasadena . She’s usually armed with a map. Is it a casual walk down the streets of Munich , a run across the narrow turns of Paris , a trudge through the tsunami-struck courtyards in Tokyo , a stroll down avenues in Madrid , or a slosh through in the tropics in Kauai today? Walking with her is always representative of some adventure. We’re beyond the point of talking to be polite; we’ve become more comfortable with our mutual silence, a hiatus that does not signify boredom or uninterest, but rather content and understanding. One is not truly close to you until you feel at home in their silence. Our relationship has become stronger because of it. When we do talk, I love what she has to say when it’s not school related. She walks behind me and tells me to straighten my back and walk in a line. I laugh and tell her to stop walking with her feet pointed outward because she looks like a penguin. When I walk with her I learn something new. Maybe it’s from the museum that was just visited or the street signs in another foreign language that my mom was once fluent in. My mom is my best friend and a walk with her is always worth more to me than a step out of the house.

When I walk with Sheila, we walk at a fast pace. She’s at least three times my age but that doesn’t keep her from being in peak shape. When we walk, the atmosphere is cold but fresh, exciting for no reason except for that I get to see her, because she lives in Canada and I live here. I walked with her just 2 weeks ago across the Colorado Bridge, and she moved faster than me as to remind me that she threw age carelessly into the wind. Her short white hair blew behind her shoulders, her nose slightly pink on this cold Saturday morning. When I walk with Sheila, she tells me about how the family’s doing. We never stop talking because there is so much to say. Our strolls are witnesses to the stories she tells me. She says that Gracie’s growing up, and that her father Tom has become the biggest softie in the family. She tells me about great aunt Lily and her daughter Rene, my cousin Anne and her new school, my uncle Michael and his house in Calgary. She almost pleads for us to come up to ski in the winter, or to work at her restaurant in the summer. I reply with pure enthusiasm and ask for stories. Despite our fast walking speed, she always finds the time to tell all the stories on our few hours out.

When I walk with Emily, it’s not really walking. Sometimes it’s a sprint, a spurt of energy. Other times it’s a doubled over stumbling from laughing. Occasionally it’s just slow steps as we tell each other what is in our minds. We listen to each other and give each other serious advice, than flip it around and make it funny again. We look at the bright side of things, and the spring in our step reflects that.

When I walk by myself, I sometimes count my paces. I know that halfway from the end of the Colorado Bridge to my house is about six hundred and fifty paces, so the length from the end of the bridge to the doorstep of my house is about thirteen hundred paces. When I don’t count I find a song in my head that matches the tempo of my steps and recite the lyrics low enough so that only I can hear them. Step, step, step. Sometimes my paces are faster or slower, depending on the song I chose, or sometimes the song has resonance with the rhythm of my breathing. Step, step, step. When walking, I run over the same, typical things in my head. Schoolwork. Step. What should I wear tomorrow? Step. Boys. Step, step. Because everything’s so far away in this city, my walks are usually limited to time. Most likely, I’m on my way to the strip of shops on Colorado or walking home from school to clear my head. People ask me why I just don’t drive, and I ask them why they just don’t walk.