Nathan Bransford wrote:I pump my arms to run faster. My ponytail bobs behind me, slapping my neck and back,. The rushing wind wicks the beaded sweat from my forehead.
It feels so good to run my route again._Seven miles: one mile to the high school, five miles around the worn track and one back. I should probably take it slowly, but running like this invigorates me,. It awakens my cells. I feel alive again. More alive than I’ve felt in three months.
I get to the track and run through the rusty gate, brushing past cobwebs. It looks like I’ve been the only one keeping the weeds at bay,. In my absence they’ve pushed through the broken red clay, looking like possible life on Mars. The ground is firm; the Georgia sun has been unforgiving this summer, baking the clay into rocks.
But this is my track, my sanctuary.
I push myself to go faster, pump harder this lap. My heels hit the rigid ground, fiercely, rolling onto the balls, propelling me forward, powerfully "propelling" already conveys powerfully. My ponytail no longer bounces on my back. Although I am moving rapidly, everything around me slows, becomes still almost. I think about her: My mom, my Mama.
I was here three months ago when several police cars screeched past leading a fire truck and an ambulance. Three helicopters followed the caravan flying overhead, their spinning blades a raucous chorus. My stomach tightened, not because of a cramp, but because I sensed that something had gone wrong. Very wrong.
I think about her: My mom, my Mama.
I was here three months ago...
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