Hands sweating, knees twitching, feet mechanically locking into position, I recognize this place as either the starting line at the track or the beginning of an Eminem music video. In this case, its the track. I close the shades on my eyes. When I open them, you are in the stands. Your gaze hovers on me for a few seconds until it casually drifts to the rest of the team. Hi coach, have you said hello to your son? No, not yet, you say with your head. The gun goes off; you don't flinch. Gears in my legs turn the pedals on my feet. There's a girl on my right, two on my left. Deftly, I manage to receive a trophy-worthy kick to my shin as I maneuver around the one and am boxed in by the two. Error. Right shin pain receptors stimulated. Deploy red fluid. Mechanics and adrenaline drive my body forward. No one saw this mistake. You saw this mistake. You are on the other side of the bleachers now. For a dead guy, you sure do move fast. Your gaze mildly jogs from competitor, to me, to competitor again. Edges of your face are blurring as you pass on, my mind busies itself filling in the framework. What color were your eyes? I don't know. Cheap mint cookies: 160 calories per four, 480 per twelve. I don't remember your eyes. I remember cookies; cookies are not your eyes. Your eyes were either brown or blue. My eyes cast out to yours, only you and your eyes are very far from mine; I can't quite see them and they snap away like oppositely charged magnets every time I look. They were probably brown, most likely brown; your son's eyes are brown. Have you seen him yet? More importantly, can he see you? Your face remains impassive. You toss me a clue; a yellow stopwatch dangles from your neck. Coming around the second lap, I don't see you. Yellow pokes through the crowd and I know you are on the other side of the stadium now. I don't remember you moving this quick when you were alive. Coach, you should be resting your heart. I know you won't. Your son is out by the place where those still on the track started this whole mess. You remain leaning against the bleachers a little too high for us to reach. White flecks on your hair glow in the sun and bounce onto the track. When I blink, it's just the reflection of the sun's light collaborating with the empty metal bench. Focus. My body quivers, pulling itself forward on the circular curve. Blindly I follow the train in front of me. You once told me you'd never miss a race. In the distance I smell your grin. With the end of lap four and the final straightaway coming to a close, you check your stopwatch. You are standing next to your son now. He has the same one, same yellow stopwatch. Except for he isn't holding it, one of the assistant coaches is. When he holds it can he see you? Regardless, he is not wearing it. Steps are counting themselves off in my head. Self worth is measured in seconds, numbers, pounds, and the insanity between the three. I'm done. The last girl is done. We are all done. And you, the clock in your chest may have stopped ticking a few years ago, but the one around your neck keeps time to the track. You've kept your time. I spy you looking over your son's shoulder to make sure he is doing this properly too. He is of course; the checking is just a formality at this point. The last girl is done, we are done, but you, Coach, you are not. Your stopwatch ticks on to the beat of the track, a beat of shoes, the heartbeat of the run, and the racers of the game. Rest in peace coach, -Soliuna
1 Comment
LMK
4/23/2016 03:39:23 am
Just wow ( amazing tribute)!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Nerds in the NeighborhoodSoliuna
|
Proudly powered by Weebly