We Sent It

July twenty-second. Eight weeks ago we both looked at the same section of wall and made the same face, the one that means 'that is not for me yet.' Today we topped it.

I should clarify: Simone topped it cleanly, touched down on the crash pad, and stood there like she had been waiting for the bus. I topped it, let go, and made a noise I cannot fully describe. The gym regular who took the photo caught it all. I am grateful and slightly embarrassed.

The debrief. Something she said was funnier than she let on.

Eight weeks of Tuesday evenings. The forearm ache that showed up every Wednesday morning. Failing the same move in the same spot for three sessions in a row until something in the sequencing finally clicked, not because I figured it out, but because my hands figured it out and I just went along with it. I kept thinking about that post I wrote back in February 2016, the day I bought my shoes. I didn't know yet what they would carry me through.

Before I'd decided to celebrate. The body knew first.

We got coffee after. Simone said, 'next one,' like it was already decided, which I suppose it was. The arc slate has been genuinely clear lately, the Carol box is empty, the windowsill is settled, the mornings have been quiet in a way that's starting to feel like a question rather than a rest. But tonight none of that was the subject. Tonight the subject was chalk on my hands and a wall we finally cleared and the particular sound of Simone being right about something without saying so.