For years, even my own yard could make me brace.

Then Remi and I began walking the small loop around our neighborhood.

The same street.
The same corners.
His leash in my hand.
Our little known way around and back home.

When we spent that month at my daughter’s house, we walked there too.

A mile loop through unfamiliar streets.

Day after day, Remi’s stride settled beside mine.

Mine settled beside his.

When we came home, we took our Saturday walk.

At the place where we usually turned, we didn’t.

We kept going.

Past the edge of the neighborhood.
Down the road.
Into town.

Remi’s head was high.
His ears were forward.

I noticed I wasn’t bracing.

This was still the stretch of road closest to some of the deepest ash, where I had once been buried so completely there was no air.

The pavement had not changed.

But there was no pull.
No echo.

Remi kept walking.

So did I.

For the first time in nearly a decade, the ground beneath my feet was simply ground.

And inside me, there was a floor.

One Real Jesus had made where there had once been only the drop.

No elevator shaft opening beneath the nearness of it.

No sudden fall.

Just a floor.

Steady.
Present.
Holding.

A little farther on, pink flowers were growing beside the road.

I stopped.

Remi stopped with me.

There they were.

And there we were.

Farther from home than we had walked together before.

The world had gotten bigger.

For both of us.

Thank You, Jesus.