Running Errands: How Small a Life, Yet How Warm a Heart

The humble rituals that shape love

My running route draws a careful line past all the supermarkets between my apartment and the edge of the city. I don’t need anything; I’m not shopping. I only stop for a second, pretending to retie my shoe or fix my hair, just to feel the warm breath of their everydayness spill onto my face. It soothes my mind in a magical way.

Most runners chase trees, trails, clean air. I chase traffic lights, storefronts, the buzz of everyday life. The city wraps around me and makes me feel at home. And in the cities, the supermarket becomes a kind of domestic planet, spinning a quiet orbit of its own with couples arguing softly over which pasta to get. Parents scold children in front of unhealthy snacks. Someone laughs on a phone call as they pick up a bottle of wine. I’m not part of it, just running past, I feel momentarily folded into the warm choreography of their ordinary loves.

I remember your voice, soft with care, as you held up a wedge of cheese. “You’ll like this one better,” you said. I remember the press of your arm against mine as we leaned into the cart. The first time we made curry, your hands, so careful, picking only the best limes, the cilantro, as if the future of us depended on the right ingredients.