You could hear the tapping of tiny feet on the terrazzo floor keeping time with the second hand of the clock that hung above the door. Knees hitting against the top of desks. Pencils clicking. Hearts begging to be recessed into the playground of Washington Elementary. When she could no longer voice the math tables above the din, Mrs. Strand would roll her eyes, drop her shoulders and release us sans the bell, knowing that if anything was to be received in the afternoon, all of this energy had to be released. 

Some days as we stomped and trampled our way back to the class, draped in a chorus of “I’m not finished yet,” she would wave her hand and tell us to run around the lot one more time. 

What do you do when there’s no longer a daily phone call. No email from the one you love. No embrace to be gathered in. No laughter to capture, bent over at the waist. No tears of tenderness caught in heart’s lap. What do you do with all of the extra love? 

I put it on canvas. On paper. In sketchbooks. Inside loaves of bread. Serif it to every story. And still it remains. Knocking at the morning door. A foot tapping, knee banging, eager hearted reminder that I will never finish loving you.  I give thanks for that, every day, and run once again around the block.