Yesterday I walked past this sidewalk hopscotch. And then I turned around and...

Yesterday I walked past this sidewalk hopscotch.
And then I turned around and came back to it and hopped my way through from beginning to end.
I haven’t hopscotched for at least thirty years.
But somewhere deep inside me there were muscles that remembered exactly what to do.
It felt good to use those muscles. There was joy in it.
On good days, writing feels that way to me, like a remembered-muscle thing, an ancient dance, a path to joy.