Perfection in the Imperfect

The stir of dust from gravel reminds me of every tiring step I take. The sun is hot overhead, heating me from the outside-in. A trickle of sweat from my brow reminds me I’m not done yet.

This road is long. Hard.

But I’m determined. I’ve planned for this. Trained for this. I have no plans of backing out or slowing down.

Gritting my teeth, I force my foot into the rock and dirt beneath and use the force of my legs to launch me further up the hill. Right, left. Right, left.

I remove the headphones from my ears and let them dangle around my neck. I’m far from the main road now, nobody else in sight.

I’m not sure which is louder. The thud of my feet. The crunch of the gravel. My heavy breath with each forward swing of my arms. The pounding of my heart as it increases.

And then my chest tightens, as the hill gets steeper. I don’t want to quit, but I can’t breathe. This is excruciating, the sting of whatever air I can suck in burns through my lungs, willing me to stop.

My knees begin to shake, and my muscles protest from lack of oxygen. My pace slows to a crawl until I can’t lift my feet any longer. My hands fall to my knees, and I resemble a tripod as a choke in air.

Soon the choking turns to welling tears in my eyes. I thought I could do this. I thought I was ready. But here I am, unable to move any further, fighting for breath and using every last bit of strength not to cry.

And I’m not even strong enough to fight them back. At first I’m not sure if it’s more sweat, or tears, but when I rub my eyes I know. All is lost.

I collapse to the ground, and squeeze my eyes shut.

Through the silence comes the sound of chirping birds flying overhead. The buzz of a bee near my ear reminds me I’m out in the country. And the rustle of leaves tells me I can open my eyes.

The shade from a tree overhead protects me from the scalding sun. I watch as the leaves dance in the subtle wind. As they flit and dance, I suddenly recognize the cool breeze on my skin. It’s marvelous.

My breathing slows, my tears fade away, my heart crawls to a steady pace.

My eyes fall on the fruit growing amidst the leaves. Pears. It’s a pear tree. My favorite fruit.

As a child I would beg for pears, wait for them to come into season so I could bite through the rough surface and experience the lovely, sweet flavor of the fruit. Not too sweet. Just perfect. When it was winter, my grandmother would open canned pears, trying to appease my desires.

I stand and find a branch low enough to grab a pear from the tree. I brush it off and bring it to my nose. Calm remembrance. I’m doing this for a reason. I’m running this marathon for all the children who don’t have the memories I do of childhood. For the children who don’t have everything I did.

I can do this. I walk back to the gravel road, and begin to jog, then pick up the pace slowly. I hold the pear in my hand gently, the reminder to keep going, to keep moving. To keep pushing forward.

Thud, thud, thud. My feet crash against the ground with a new intensity, and my heart fills my chest with appreciation and love. This is what I’m capable of. I am capable.

A smile crosses my face and continues to grow, and soon the finish line is in sight. People on the sideline cheer as I cross, and I’m grateful to have finished. I’m offered a fresh strawberry shortcake by a sweet woman, but I decline. It’s not the treat I need.

The pear is not too tart, not too sweet, when I bite into it. The reminder that everything is perfect.