The Orange Shoes

Every morning my person puts on her orange shoes, and I know what kind of day it is.

We run. Not fast at first. Down the hill, past the blue gate, past the bakery that smells of hot bread, around the park two times. She looks at her watch and says a number to herself. The watch shows her rate: how many minutes she needs for one kilometer. She has a race in the summer, five kilometers, and she wants to beat her record.

I know the movement of her legs better than she does. In April, we passed the bakery before the man opened the door. In May, we passed it when the door was already open. In June, the man had time to wave at us.

Something was wrong. She was losing her speed. So I ran in front of her and pulled. Come on. Faster.

Then, in the park, she stopped and put her hand on my head. “You're eleven, Juno,” she said. “You're tired. It's okay. We'll go slow.”

I sat down on the grass. The running is not slower. I am slower, and she is staying with me.

She can have her race. I have this: she goes at my speed now, every morning, past the blue gate, all the way to the bakery and back.