And Then You’re Running

Sometimes the hill is so steep

that you can't lower your feet against gravity slowly enough

to cool down the pace.

Each step gets faster, your heels pressing harder into the earth,

your backpack pushing down on you,

making any attempt to slow yourself futile.

Muscles resign,

and then you’re running.

When you were young,

were you ever so excited when a loved one arrived

that you dropped the kendama

and were out the front door before

it stopped bouncing catawampus on the floor?

The car door slams, and then you’re running,

racing your own excitement

to the finish line of their arms.

Then there’s that instinct

to escape what the dark might hold.

At night, when the rest of the house

has gone horizontal

and your light pools in the corner of the room.

The switch flips off, black folds over everything,

and then you’re running.

Up the stairs or under the covers that

mold to your body and hold you safe,

a small, perfect sense of security.

There are times when

you see something from the past–

not for what it was–

but for the way it made you feel.

It flickers in the cave of memory

like candlelight spilling over rough stone,

illuminating only what it wants

and leaving everything else in shadows.

Blind to what exists beyond the light,

you reach for it and are sucked in.

And then you’re running,

barefoot and breathless through

these half-illuminated memories

trying to catch something that never was.

Maybe you can’t tell

if you’re chasing something

or being chased.

The way the world shifts,

both must be true.

All the while you’re running.

Always towards something, and

always away.