marion loves horse-racing.
he always has.
taking the grandkids to see the races near chicago, telling stories of the many foals he and sadie rose have cared for on their farm, watched from the bay windows in the red farm house. for years he rose early to feed whatever equine guests they housed, even dragging sleepy-eyed children along when they begged, teaching them patience and a gentle hand.
i’ve yet to see a race, my visits never aligning with the trips, but i think i understand the excitement.
for the horse, at least.
i’ve lately felt akin to the waiting racer; squirming behind the metal gate, blood-pumping, hooves-scraping at the cold, dirt ground, waiting, waiting for the gate to rise and the gun to sound.
and now i hear it, echoing off the empty bleachers.
i’m the only horse in this race so i’m destined to win.
perspective’s the judge.
as i tear out the gate, flying dirt dredging to-do lists and goals, i’m not anxious for the finish, but happy to be racing.
i wonder if marion would take my odds?