He ran. Oh, he ran. Timothy, only twelve years old, was known in the town for his running.
No bicycle; his family definitely had no car; but Timothy's shoes were always thick. If they ripped, his mother sewed them. If holes formed in the bottom, his father would re-sole them with an old tire or anything he could find.
His shoes were always thick.
Some days Timothy ran for bread, milk, or the local news. Now he ran to catch a boat. A boat he had already missed. A boat he only thought about boarding.
In my town I never run and today it no longer smells like fall, as it did three days past. It is September 15th. The scent will return; but the elation, the inspiration that came with inhaling fall's sweet nectar disappeared when I, too busy, did not write it down.
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