You go now. You actually go. There is a whole building full of the metal, and you drive there in the cold and dark, and you lift it up and put it down on purpose. Nobody makes you.
I used to think grown-ups just got strong. Like it happened. Like one day you wake up tall and you can open every jar and carry every kid on your shoulders. But look at you sweating. Look at your face going red. It doesn't just happen. You have to want it, and you got up early, and you wanted it.
You wrote something down on a little paper at the front. What did you promise? I bet it was a big one. I bet you told yourself this is the year. You still do that. You still think next week you can be new.
I don't understand the mirrors. Why are there so many mirrors, and why do you frown at yourself in every single one? You look fine. You look like a person who can pick things up.
There's a lady over there with a jump rope. You loved a jump rope. You could do the crisscross one and everybody watched. You won't touch it. You just do the walking machine that goes nowhere and stare at your glowing rectangle.
Go do the jump rope. Please. Before you leave. Just once, just to see if your feet still know it.
I think they do.