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The Finish Line
I’m on my knees, hands clasped together under my chin.
He’s standing above me, looking down to meet my gaze. The look of concern washing over him.
We’re so close you can almost see the heat from my body bouncing off his.
The only thing separating us is a red line on the floor below me. Millimeters from making contact with my skin.
I look both ways, but the line has no end. It stretches out and fades into the unknown fog representing infinity.
“Why can’t I cross the finish line?” I plead with the man above.
My skin showing blue and black splotches, cuts new and old, blood clotting on the soles of my feet.
I have fought, clawed, and muscled my way to this red line. But why does he stand here, obstructing my path?
In the corners of my eyes I see proud runners hopping over the line, pumping their fists with victory, then hunching over, gasping for air with relief that their race has ended.
His stance never wavered. He is more relaxed than ever.
I beg. My effort has gone void.
But he knows.
I cut through the paths. I wanted to win. I wanted the race to be over, I hadn’t known what I signed up for. The pain was unbearable.
But he knows.
I missed key steps, scenery I was supposed to marvel in on the way. I ran a race that people were strolling through.
I cheated myself.
My eyes must be telling him what had known all along.
He crouches to meet me at eye level.
“Don’t run this time. Breathe in the air I’ve provided. Look at the mountains I’ve created. Admire the path I’ve built for you.”
Copyright ©
Sara Ponferrada
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