Setting: July 4, 2025 — Town hall parking lot, where the longest wait led to the shortest race
On the Fourth of July, the kids ran a superhero one-miler. We’d signed them up weeks ahead, ordered matching shirts, and circled the date on the calendar.
That morning we piled into the car with my parents and headed to the race. Families filled the parking lot, red, white, and blue everywhere. There was a check-in tent, a line for goody bags — sunglasses, a blow-up beach ball, little patriotic trinkets that made the boys feel official. We didn’t know the route, so we wandered the lot, trying to guess which way they’d run.
Finally, they were called to the start. They stretched with the crowd, side by side with a few costumed superheroes, bouncing on their toes, impatient for the whistle.
And then — go time.
They looped around the lot, past a few buildings, close enough we could almost see them the whole way. And then they were back again, crossing the finish line before we’d even finished cheering.
It was advertised as a mile, but it wasn’t even close — a quarter mile? Half a mile? We’ll never know. All that planning, anticipation, and spectacle, for a sprint that ended almost as soon as it began.
Seven minutes. That’s all it took — from the starting whistle to the finish line, from anticipation to memory.
And that’s childhood in a nutshell: the days feel long, but the years race past in a blur. One day they’re bouncing at the starting line, the next they’re racing ahead — and all I can do is love the in-between, holding tight to these blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments as they run toward whatever comes next.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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