The Promise of Tomorrow

by Mary Ellen Taylor

The trick with grief was to outrun it. Never stop moving because it was always trailing close behind. Stop and think too long, and it would eat you right up. So, each day I kept moving until I was exhausted.

People came and went, time marched on, and the earth kept turning. All my worldly problems that I’d mentally etched in stone felt like a spectacular waste of time.

I traveled in a whirlwind of furious energy, but I was rudderless. Only raw nerves kept me putting one foot in front of the other. I’d learned at age twelve that people who stopped moving were swallowed whole by the universe.