I’d brought her Gatorade. Slumped on graveled
shoulder, cars flashing past, she gulped it down;
joked, I’m like road kill. I
said, I traveled
10 miles to find you. That’s
progress. She frowned.
I recalled college, pre-season wind sprints
for basketball: Running a 220,
I fainted. Doc called it
pneumonia. Sent
me straight to bed. Coach said, ‘You
got plenty
of guts. Come back when you can
breathe.’ Her eyes,
blue-gray like our early-morning sky, glowed.
I said, Remember six months ago?
Wise
to call it progress. She
nodded, I know.
New sun kissed us. She smiled and touched my cheek.
We linked arms, raised each other to our feet.
Roger Armbrust
October 15,
2013
