You wanted to race
in the dark.
I looked at you
with a droopy frown
and eyes filled with disbelief.
We had run all day,
with only
minute-long water breaks
scattered sparsely throughout.
The sun was finally setting,
signaling the end of practice.
You stood in my way however,
determined to get in
one last race.
‘Just a mile,’
you said.
‘Just a mile.’
I couldn’t do a mile;
I could hardly stand.
Self doubt coursed
through my veins.
Yet I let you
convince me,
and we mounted the start line.
It was pitch black now.
I could only see
a few feet ahead.
You shouted, ‘Go!’
And we ran.
I fell behind quickly,
but I refused to stop.
My muscles screamed,
telling me it was too far.
I knew it was;
but I would only stop
when you would.
You eventually did,
and I caught up.
I collapsed to your feet,
tears rushing down my cheeks.
‘I could barely run a mile.
How could I compare to you?’
You stood me up,
and grinned.
‘You’re right,’
you said.
‘You can do more.’
Switching on a flashlight,
you showed me
the finish:
Several yards behind us.
