Oh, what an agony it is to be alive, and sentient, and beautiful, and able. When I run through the woods I bemoan each graceful footfall. The pines smell of vanilla and the dog barks at yearling bear cubs. I say out loud, “I’m sorry, Oso, he has no manners.”

When I was young I wished for lithe limbs and long bejeweled fingers and fine wrists like the women in Vogue. But I was born short and sturdy, a little farm girl, Sarah Jean, and it was a very long time before I realized I had my own peculiar beauty. Now I see this is the finest I will ever be, and I am pleased. My belly will always be slightly distended and jiggly, but I will continue to eat duck fat and drink beer. I just run. Running makes it all make sense. The world hushes. It is just me and the dog, our panting, our jingling.