I prefer walking.

I don’t run. Running is weird to me.

In my small Bessarabian town, we walked. But our walks were not leisurely strolls. We walked with purpose, with urgency.

We walked to the fields, heavy sickles swinging at our sides, our strides long and hurried. The sun barely cresting the horizon as we raced against time.

We walked home, backs bent under sacks of grain, feet pounding the dusty paths, sweat-soaked and aching.

We walked to school, our feet crunching frost-coated grass, breaths coming in sharp puffs, always aware of the ticking clock.

Running? Running was for true emergencies. For escaping dogs with foam-flecked muzzles. For racing storm clouds home before the sky split open.

Now, in America, I have friends who run. I see them return from jogs, faces flushed, breath coming in sharp gasps. They speak of endorphins, of pushing limits. Their eyes shine with a fervor I don’t understand but admire.

I walk. I walk and listen to stories whispered in my ears. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Bulgarian or Russian, sometimes in languages I don’t understand but feel in my bones. The cadence of unknown words matches the rhythm of my steps.

I remember the blisters on my child-hands, angry red bubbles from gripping sickle handles too big for my palms.

I remember the burn in my thighs as I climbed trees to pick apples, stuffing them inside my shirt until it bulged.

Sometimes, in dreams, I see my people. They move through the fields of home. Dust swirls around their ankles, hanging in the air like memories.

I wake with the phantom scent of fresh wheat in my nostrils.

I lace up my shoes and step outside.

I slip in my headphones, queuing up a story in a language I’m still learning.

One foot in front of the other. The rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat.

I walk.

Why?

Because with each step, I carry the weight of my ancestors’ toil.

Because the earth beneath the concrete remembers our feet.

Because in the cadence of my stride, I hear the whispers of my people, urging me forward.

I walk to remember. I walk to forget.

I walk because in Bessarabia, we never stopped moving.