Somehow my feet led me to a pile of rubble
The skeleton of an old building
And I sat on a chipped concrete block and cried.
In between my tears I laughed at myself
Realizing how pathetic it must have looked
How melodramatic
That one bad mile
And the pain in my foot
Could contain so much fear
So much disappointment
So much shame.
My brain—a muscle—was tired.
I had prayed that God would be my strength and joy
Yet I found myself dry heaving alone in the bathroom
Trying to rely on my own strength
Leaving the indents of my fingernails in my arm
Convinced that joy is a number.
How strange that I should cry
Like a kid over spilled milk
When someone died today
I know his sister
And he was so young
His clock ran out
And mine ran up,
Each second piling on like another accusation,
Reminding me of the brevity of my time on this team
As a runner
In this mortal, temporal body
Whose clock I do not know.
But maybe each second was a gift
Breath in my lungs
And strength in my legs
And I found myself, weakness exposed,
In front of my teammates when I always wanted to be strong
It seemed that I was forced open so I could receive their love
I found my fingers being pried away
From the idol I didn’t know they were clutching
Joy is not a number
It’s living
It’s loving
It’s being loved
It’s knowing that my days are numbered
I am not my own
It’s all a gift.