The Race

Bang.

The starting gun

Wakes me from my sleep

Slowly I begin to run,

Breathing slow and deep.

Sleeping, I was safe and warm,

But a runner breathes alone.

I try to look beyond the storm

And catch a glimpse of home.

Turn my head, see a face,

Eyes straight, head held high —

Struggles, tries to keep the pace.

She’s not as strong as I.

I pause a moment, slow my gait —

She says, “Go on, I’m all right.

If only I can look straight ahead,

I’ll make it through the night.”

Hours ago, I made my start.

Night stretches silky black.

Light footsteps thunder behind my heart.

I keep on looking back.

Now we reach a steep dark hill.

I know that if she makes the top,

She’ll make it all the way — she will!

Then the footsteps behind my stop.

Turning, I see a crumpled heap,

She, who held her head high.

She whispers, “The hill is too damn steep.”

I answer, “You must try.”

Pour some water on her face,

Help her stand, her body arching.

Slowly, we resume the race,

Side by side, the rules forsaken.

Strong wind comes, she falls with a cry,

and says, “Just leave me here.”

Lift her up, point to the sky,

“See the sun? We’re almost there.”

Smile down, the storm is calm,

Her body still as the ocean deep,

Speak softly, lightly touch her arm,

Try to wake her from her sleep.

Her eyes don’t flutter.

No wind blows.

So the silence tells what I already know.

The sun burns my face

And I long to erase

All the times and moments before.

In exchange for a minute —

Oh, what I’d say in it!

For an hour or two hours more.

But the moment is gone —

And I am alone.

Still miles to go until I reach home.

I’ll continue to run,

Caring not who has won.

Only remembering the sound of the gun.

Bang.