Friday, October 21, 2016

Running, Flying, Landing

The house I grew up in was at the top of a hill.

The corner market was down the hill. 

My school was down the hill.

The polyg house was down the hill.

I remember the cool mornings of autumn.

I would walk out the front door and down the steps.

My breath rises like smoke from a locomotive.

I would turn to the west and look down the hill,

I ran.

I took off like a sprinter hearing the starter pistol.

It was a little over a block from my house to the polyg house.

I ran faster and faster.

Halfway down the hill, the large polyg house would come into view and I would start jumping.

Going faster and farther with each jump the cold air would sand skin from my cheeks.

The bottom of the hill approached closer with each jump.

For a moment I was freed from the earth and I would fly. 

I reached the bottom of the hill, my cheeks burning but my flesh was intact.

I failed to run out of my skin, nothing was revealed.

Rosy cheeks were the only evidence of the effort spent.

I stopped at the bottom of the hill everything I ran from was still there with me.

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