The Finish Line

It's always been there, stretched out across the horizon, beckoning. And I've crossed it countless times. It's so final--The Finish Line.

I can still remember the first finish line I didn't cross. I was in jr. high and we were doing a 4x400 relay for practice. Each member of the relay team ran a 400. I was last, and I was 30 yards from the finish when I wavered and stepped off the track. I collapsed on the grass, and my teammates ran over to me.
"Why didn't you finish? You were doing so good!"
I was tired. And ashamed.
I always finished after that.

There was the time I got spacers in my braces. It hurt too badly to eat. So I didn't. At my high school district 400 meters that day, I ran as fast as I could, but within sight of the finish line, darkness. I still finished, my bare shoulder sliding painfully across the finish line.

Then there was the time at the state meet, on a blue track, that I crossed the finish line, my heart pumping so quickly in my legs as I looked up to see my time and place on the scoreboard. I had worn the wrong hip numbers and they credited another girl with my personal record and second place. But even though the 57.91 wasn't next to my name, it was my time and I laughed--triumphant and weary. I had never ran that fast before.

Through college the finish line always called to me. Through workouts, as we sprinted against each other, in my first college 4x400 where I ran with fear of disappointing three intimidating, powerful seniors, at the top of sidewalk hill by the gym. Always we would thrust our arms into the air as we crossed, not as a sign of triumph, but as a sign of finito, finished, done.

Another time at a track meet in Oregon--one of my last chances to qualify for the National meet as a senior--I watched the finish line waver and flip, as I slid, somersaulted, and went down in a pile-up of girls during the first lap of an 800 meter race. I watched from the ground, bloodied, as the last girl hurdled over and past me, carrying my dreams away around the track. And I stood up, and I caught that girl and a few others, but I didn't catch my dreams. Nationals eluded me that year.

My life was a finish line: getting good grades, turning in the best paper, graduating with honors, getting married--- a race to be won, one more finish line, triumphant or bruised and battered, I always crossed, and then there was always one more finish line, stretched out for me to cross.

After college, I still raced actual races, and always the finish line arched over my life.

Then my husband and I decided to have a baby. 9 months, and my finish line was ubiquitous and unreliable and fascinating, and difficult and never crossed. Mckenzie. When I held her for the first time, our hearts were both racing. And the world changed.

"I am your parent; you are my child. I am you quiet place; you are my wild. I am your calm face; you are my giggle. I am your wait; you are my wiggle. . . I am your finish line; you are my race. I am your praying hands; you are my saying grace."

Poem by Maryann K. Cusimano, "You Are My I Love You."

P.S.
My bane in trying to become a writer is coming up with themes, or things to write about, so I give you another entry into a Scribbit contest.
Thanks for the prompt! I'm going to overcome this ideas-to-write-about" rut!