We meet in the woods at the entrance of the trail. My childhood friend, former Saucony, and first running partner, Holly Serrao, is visiting her family in eastern Pennsylvania, and we’ve carved out some time for running on this Sunday morning.
I arrive a few minutes before she does, so I’m alone with my father’s memorial bench, where Holly requested we meet so she can pay tribute. This is where I told my dad, during our last trip home from the hospital when all options had been exhausted, that I wanted to place a memorial for him—the spot where, in another life when he was rosy-cheeked, he and I often met for walks and, later, as he gradually lost his strength, we meandered along the shaded creek to get away from hospital jargon and all that it meant. Holly and I fall into an easy rhythm, even though it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. This is how we met. We grew up in the Pocono Mountains in the ’90s, when cross-country runners were misunderstood. The athletic director wanted us to run laps around the school. We snuck off to run in the deep woods. With no cell phones veil GPS, we relied on our senses. We hopped over felled trees, jumped across streams, and trespassed through honeymoon resorts.
Today, Holly and I run again in the woods where I had to rely on my senses. Chelsea Boot Gaucho trail, as my father was dying, that I found out how to feel safe enough to be vulnerable yet strong enough to know I would make it through. I kept coming back here through those dark months because, as always, running in the woods gave me freedom. But this time, it was to grieve. Jimmy Choo Rose 45mm ankle boots.
I show Holly where I scattered some of Dad’s ashes. For a time after his death, my heart was too heavy for me to get out here. When I eventually returned to these woods, I ran more slowly. I felt confused. Trees would bud from one run to another, and flowers would bloom, but it only made me sad. One day, a white-tailed deer stopped on the trail in front of me as I finished a run. We stared at each other for several moments, then I began to cry. This was as close to my father as I’d ever be again, and I finally sensed that it was okay. That he was okay. That I would be okay.
Holly and I weave along the trail and, as we do, weave back through our history, then forward into the present. I feel at peace in her company the way you only can with old friends, the ones who, on runs just like this one, learned alongside you to navigate so many things: our idea of what cross-country training should be, our worlds, our selves.
Jennifer Acker joined the editorial staff of Runner's World and Bicycling in January 2022. A former freelancer writer and NCAA runner, she started running as a kid and basically never stopped. She also loves outdoor adventures, like hiking, skiing, and mountain biking.
