A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance

Frog

Mile sixteen. Four runners ahead of me. My arms pump faster and faster, making my legs shoot farther and farther. The street is flanked by people cheering, people in multicolored tees, people who urge us on, people who do not experience the pain or the euphoria. Ahead, a little girl in red stretches her open hands in front of her as if offering something. As I flash by, I catch sight of a frog on her palm.

Did I dream this? I might have or not. Closer to the finish line, I am used to getting visions like this.

My mother's voice shrinking my spirit: "The frog did it!" She said that whenever I did something wrong. She meant the frog test, a once popular pregnancy test. I figured that out when I was older.

My nerves vibrate like a spring coil. I almost hear their "ting" in the air. Sweat douses my face, oozes from my back  My head is about to break, so I let things--images, thoughts--to rush in.

Why didn't she want me? Still, she kept me, didn't she? She must have felt trapped into raising me when the entire world ran out on her, and I must have been so heavy to carry.

I pick up the pace as something--mother, me, frog--pushes me ahead.

If I were a frog, I would leap to the finish line, but I feel like a snake slithering.

Amazing, how much clutter my brain holds, clutter that spills as my muscles beg me to slow down. Waves of exhaustion alternate with bursts of empty energy.

All there's to do is to let it happen. Finishing the race is what counts. A couple of people pass me by, but it doesn't matter. I must make it to the finishing line.

My frantic breaths send all sounds deeper in my ears as if I am underwater, but I suddenly jump up and tell my self, "Run, run, run. All the way to the finish line."

No one is pushing me now. No one will ever push me again.

This frog will make it somehow. This frog is running her own race today.


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Prompt: Frog