Run: A bit of prose By Mike Amari

Run
By Mike Amari

In an instant he is eight
cool air blows through his hair,
last bit of warmth slightly spiking the air
as the onset of October loomed.
He chases a ball his father has thrown,
running & smiling across the back yard.
This moment remains yet passes. He will remember what it was like to be a child.

In an instant he is thirteen
Brisk air hits his face as he runs a cross pattern formation,
the pigskin hitting his gut right before being tackled.
Congregating in the park down the the street, him & his friends
hold onto the last days before winter buries the field.
This moment remains yet passes. He will remember what it was like to be a friend.

In an instant he is eighteen
Warm air rushes over him as he rushes to his parents, hugging them.
Beaming as the take pictures, displaying the diploma in each one.
Friends and teachers come and go for snapshots,
somenever to be seen again except in these paper portraits.
This moment remains yet passes. He will remember what it was like to be proud.

In an instant he is twenty five
light rain coats his tuxedo as he runs from the church, bride in arms
toward a car with cans tied to the back and people with rice.
An April shower to grant luck on young love, smiles & laughter filling the air.
This moment remains yet passes. He will remember what it's like to be happy.

In an instant he is thirty five.
Sterilized air moves about him as his wife runs alongside the gurney.
He glides along, a network of rubber & metal extending from his viens.
She looks worred.
He holds her hand, musters a smile & tells her it'll be alright.
She is scared of a word.
Malignant, the doctor said.
Still smiling he says, "be strong."
This moment remains yet passes. He will remember what it was like to be afraid.

In an instant he is fifty
cool air blows through his hair, the last bit of warmth slightly spiking the air
as the onset of October loomed.
He chases a ball thrown by his son, running and smiling across the backyard.
They play catch as he tells his son what it was like to be a child.
He tells his son what it was like to be a friend.
Amidst the slap of leather & rustle of leaves he tells his son what it was like to be proud.
Over a late dinner he tells his son what it was like to be happy.
In the small hours of the night he tells his son what it was like to be afraid.
This moment passes yet remains. His son will remember what it was like to be loved.

Happy fathers day, to all the good guys still out there.