The holiday spirit has been like the flu for me this year. Since November I’ve steered clear of shopping malls and festive parties to keep the memories of lost loved ones at bay.

Unemployed, uninspired and unable to run due to an injury, my resistance was imperative. Avoiding the jolliness of others meant avoiding eye contact while whispering the lyrics to Joni Mitchell’s “River” under my humbugged breath. I had to metaphorically skate away on a river-because running away wasn’t an option.

My father was a runner all his life. He ran to meet life head on. He ran every day that I can remember and always finished with a zenful smirk on his face. In the winter months he would return home pre-dawn wearing the tell-tell icicle attached from the tip of his nose to the chin of his ski mask. I have always envied his spirit for consistency; he believed that running was good for the spirit.

So this was the memory I thought of as I drove my belt-squawking station wagon home from another failed attempt at a zenful smirk from the gym. I loath the idea of stand still exercise; of exercising in front of television sets streaming negative news. This time I made it nine minutes before bolting into the evening fresh air.

I miss my father, If he were here we’d be running side by side across the states, sharing our particularly peculiar way of celebrating life.

It was cold; it was dark and I felt like I was coming down with the holiday spirit.

I parked the car a mile from my house and decided to gamble my injury for a chance at a happy memory.

A quick whispered prayer that my calf would hold out and I dashed up the road with nothing but neighborhood holiday lights to keep me company. Occasionally my shadow would reflect off the street reminding me that I share my fathers shoulders, his swaggering gait and it comforted me.

By the time I reached Boulevard Heights, I felt confident that my run would be injury free and it would be the vaccine certain to boost my immunity. I paused at the top of Pisgah Way and looked out in awe at the miles of the twinkling merriness of this town-an unavoidable glimpse of what I was missing, of what I needed - spirit.

I stopped resisting and caught the Christmas spirit with arms wide open. Not the go out and buy everyone a gift card while shouting “Merry Christmas!” kind but the go home and cherish those around you kind.

Frosty tears stung my eyes as I ran back to my car. Beside me ran my shadow; at times a little taller, a little larger and a little faster than myself, reminding me that those we’ve lost are only a memory away.

Perhaps running is good for the spirit; Christmas is. Happy holidays.