His father and I were once young together, runners of long distances, across fields and suburban drives and teenage battlefields.

Tonight he’s carrying his baby boy, and walking with his wife and me back to their hotel, which looks far away down the concrete city sidewalk.

Revelers in hats and soaked heavy coats celebrate with laughter and drink. There’s only moments left in the old year.

Despite the wintry night we suddenly, naturally take off running, again, towards the glowing hotel. With us is an infant boy with a snotty nose. His eyes are wide, and he’s a spark of fire hurtling through the cold and damp night. He’s smiling, and we are promethean.

With wind in my lungs, spirit in my belly, and an electric storm in my muscles I’m practically flying. I’m giddy. Orion is constant in the firmament as the rest of the Earth streams by. I look ahead and see mother and father dashing on with their cherubic boy, their hope made flesh, laughing wildly as we all run like giants across the spinning globe.

There is no disease, no heartbreak, no sorrow, and no end. We are reckless and young evermore, and despite keeping their child awake on a dreadfully frigid New Year’s Eve, and running like scamps, wildly through the raining city lights – they are among the best parents in the world. I’m certain of it.

Like fabled marathoners, we are all runners in the night, carrying hope, light, and the battle-glorious news that life must go on for another year. It must be met bravely, and the act of living should make running hearts pound with joyful abandon at times.