Last Sunday I posted the video from my daughter’s band competition at state. Two days earlier, my son ran at the cross country regional meet and had his best day.

He wouldn’t like this poem. He’s already working to beat his time.


Sixty-four degrees and the wind

is shifting north when you

take off in your flame-colored

shoes. I follow you from checkpoint

to checkpoint around the course

my teeth grinding my hand slapping

my thigh urging you on ever faster,

while I forget what you said last

night, set aside the things you’ll

never forgive me for, simply cheer

for these 17 minutes and 44 seconds

in which everything is right.