Counting my steps.

I count my footsteps as I walk home. I always have. I try to keep at an even pace, same number of steps in each section of footpath. Usually four steps per section. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, eight, one, two, three, twelve… 

Counting gets me home. If I count, I don’t feel the rain. If I count, I don’t feel the pain. Each footstep feels like I’m walking on razor blades. So I count. 

Seven hundred and thirty six steps home from the school run. One thousand four hundred odd, home from town. 

 And when it’s all too much, I can urge on one more step. Just one more, then another. You can always take one more step. Nearly there now. 

Others use devices to count for them. They don’t need to count to occupy their minds.  They use their steps to earn bragging rights. 

I can brag too. I made it home one more time. 

[image showing female presenting person, from the waist down, walking along a footpath, with their back to the camera. They are wearing a grey coat and white tights, and flat shoes. They are walking towards the sunset with long shadows behind them.]

  

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