Miles to Go Before I Sleep
Mile #3: Manhattan to Brooklyn. Two subway transfers crammed with smells
unfathomable. My large oaktag poster scatters glitter across the horde like salt on
boiling lobster. A woman in spandex threatens my life. I escape, artwork disintegrating
in my hand as I power-walk eight blocks to the route. Timing impeccable, I raise the sign
as wife runs by:
CONGRATULATIONS AMY—MARATHON QUEEN!
She doesn’t notice.
Mile #11: Brooklyn to Manhattan. There is a list of supplies I’ve been instructed to
gather from home: a jacket, packets of energy goo, a hair tie, salt? A spare hydration
belt? All collected unconditionally. Back on subway out to Queens. The belt is leaking. It
appears I’ve urinated myself. It’s possible. Stumble to mile marker—make the handoff.
Wife takes selfie. I’m not in it.
Mile #20: To the Bronx! I meet my mother-in-law in Manhattan, who is holding flowers
for Amy. Now, I’m holding flowers for Amy. Board train, uptown. Mother-in-law insults
aggressive busker. Profanities. Sprint to designated spot. The jacket from before is
thrown at me as she passes. Its zipper cuts my lip. Mother-in-law is so proud. I spit
blood.
Mile #26: Finish line. The “flowers” are an assortment of stems now. Down to Central
Park by cab. Profanities. In Farsi. Fall out of taxi at park’s edge. Find friends: vibrant,
sipping fine wine from cans. Push through the masses to finish line. Victory! Hugs!
Water! Bagels!
I wake up the next morning in a hospital room. My wife has run a marathon.
