What's wrong? she writes in a note.
The running leg's a pipe dream.
She slips the note back.
So was walking....
Don't look so far ahead....
Looking ahead is what's been giving me hope. I've wanted to believe we'll be able to gather twenty thousand dollars. I've wanted to believe that I'll run again.
But hope now feels so fragile. Too fragile to touch.
The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen, p. 203.
My aspiration is not running. It never was. I am not a 50-year-old trying to run back to a past job. A younger body perhaps--a body that propelled me out of my cocoon. I have been told that expecting to have my wheelchair in my home within a week is realistic. Odd. Three months ago, I wanted no part of such a future.
Yet, I listen to my body. My ankle is inflamed with deafening screams, "Do something NOW. I can't carry you. You are breaking me."
I look at my body--my stomach is bigger than it should be. I know why. I know what I need--laps in a pool, a buoyed spirit. Yet, my body cries out. She demands my attention.
"Listen. Rest. Do not break me."
Looking ahead. Hoping. Yet, what is it that I am running to do. Swimming. Yes. What else?
But hope now feels so fragile. Too fragile to touch.
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