For a Wednesday, One and Twenty Eight

I pour myself into a chair, grab a cup of hot tea, enjoying the warmth of it in my hands, and try to bring a close to another day that ran away from me like the fastest kid in a neighborhood game of tag.  You know the one.  The kid who is never "it" and is always looking back at you with that half smile, laughing.  Man how I wanted to be that fast kid.  Just out of reach.  Dodging, running, and laughing.  You could never quite tag him.  Never quite make him "it."  You jump through the hedge in a last ditch effort to get him, scraping your arms on the rough wooden branches and trampling flowers under foot certain he has slowed just enough that you can slap him on the back of the head, or shoulder, or arm.  Tag.  All it would take is just a simple brush of the fingers.  Just the tip of one finger.....

What kind of shoes is that kid wearing anyway?  Why is he so darn fast?  And why do his parents let him grow his hair that long?  You don't see them nagging him constantly to get it cut.  Just like Samson, his power must come from his hair.  That has to be it.  Not the sneakers. So, really it is your parents' fault.  Figures.  They never let you do anything.  

And so here you are, thirty years later after another day racing through life, all your goals running just out of reach.  Racing and running.  Turning back to look at you.   And you are never quite running fast enough.  If only you could reach out, just far enough.  If only.