I worked hard at my physical therapy. Afterward I packed my foot in ice. Sometimes Trey came along to watch me work out and he laughed and laughed when he discovered the stationary bike didn’t move. “No dusting off!” he’d say. How simple life was for him. How complicated it had become for me. I tried not to cry in front of him.
When I finally got off my crutches, I pushed myself to regain my former mobility. Trey ran laps with me around the black tar track at my high school. He ran slightly askew. Sometimes he’d trip over his own feet and fall down hard.
“Dust off!” he’d tell himself with confidence.
After many months I felt ready for track. I qualified for the 300-meter hurdles. Mom, Dad and Trey sat in the stands to cheer me on the day of the race.
“Stay focused,” I told myself as I mentally prepared to run well.
The starting-gun shot split the air. As I ran I could feel the tautness in my legs. My feet hit the hard track one after the other, quickly, in rhythm. My breathing was even. I could feel the other runners around me, next to me, passing me, then in front of me. I ignored the rising pain in my foot and ankle. On the other side of the track I ran into a wall of cheers. No time to react, no time to think, just time to run and run hard.
A runner passed me, then another and another. Over the hurdles they flew.
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