The Lone Runner

A Poem by Jen Harnett

The journey of a family

He is poised - feet set, legs lunged, body crouched, arms tucked, awaiting the shot that will mark the beginning of the race.

He is lined up with his competition; determination on his face, the air of rancid entitlement filling his lungs as he breathes in and out, the breeze gently shifting his golden locks.

He has trained for this moment from the day he could walk. His path predestined by the footsteps of his ancestors.

The preparation has been harsh, the sacrifices steep; but he is a warrior, and will endure the costs to reach perfection. His identity will be defined in this race.

He has studied his competition; the reels are imprinted. He knows his competitions every nuance and weakness.

His heart beats faster. This is his moment, his training has been embedded, he is a fierce competitor.

The starter pistol has fired. His legs pump as he races onward along the path.

The path leads him down country roads, past the ruins of a small high school. The alumni sitting in front the school on tattered thrones with looks of scorn. He runs on.

The path leads him past universities and businesses. Slowing slightly to gather the golden ring and the titles of prestige. He runs on.

The path changes and he is running past houses with the warmth of lights glowing inside. He runs on.

He runs past a cemetery, seeing two fresh graves of the young who have died before their time. His legs slow momentarily, empathy temporarily clouding his mind. He runs on.

His head swirls with thoughts of victory and fanfare. He runs, each stride proving his worthiness.

He feels secure in his lead and takes a moment to glance behind him, his competitor is no where in site. He will be a winner.

The ending is in sight. The black ribbon stretches across the finish line. He pushes his outstretched arms through the ribbon. He has won.

A young boy hands him a flag with the crest on it. His training and endurance have all been awarded, he has the crest, he has won.

He stands alone in the cement tunnel of the stadium ready to run his victory lap, and reap the spoils of his success. He runs his fingers over the rough jagged stitches that holds together the frayed crest onto the flag.

He holds the crest high, and enters the stadium. Something is not right, the stadium is empty. The stadium where he was to receive his fanfare, his heirloom of triumph, stands empty and in decay.

The young boy who handed him the flag stands behind him. He turns to the young boy and screams. Where is the band? Where is the fanfare? Where is my golden trophy?

The young boy hides his face in shame and mumbles quietly, "The race ended long ago. You have won. Your competitor dropped out many years ago, the crest is all yours."

But the matriarch and the patriarch, where are they? All this has been to receive the coveted golden trophy from them. The young boy hangs his head even lower, a tear falling from the corner of his eye, "They are too ill to attend, they have been too ill to be here. Their role was to train you and they trained you well. You have the crest."

He turns away from the boy. Anger now the power that drives the strength in his legs. He runs. He runs on, alone.