Setting: November 26, 2023 — Thanksgiving morning on frozen streets lined with cowbells and turkey hats, where the cheering was loud and the life choices were questionable.
I knew it was a bad idea to bring my five-year-old to a 2.5-mile Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning, but he insisted. Caleb and I do it every year, and Holden didn’t want to miss out.
Within minutes, Caleb had taken off ahead of us, speedy legs pumping with excitement, while Holden and I lagged behind, swallowed by a sea of turkey hats and neon sneakers. By the ten-minute mark, the questions began:
“Where’s the food?"
“Can we just turn around?”
“Can’t you carry me?”
Then came the real Holden hits:
“How much longer is this race?”
“How many more minutes?”
“I’m hungry.”
“I want to sit down.”
He wanted snacks. He wanted shortcuts. He wanted out. But we kept going. There’s no turning around in a race of this size; there’s only one direction: forward.
So we trudged ahead, slow and dramatic, passing volunteers with cowbells and dreaming of pie. It took nearly an hour, and we never once ran. But eventually, we saw it: the finish line. We picked up our pace. Caleb was already there, waiting for us after leaving us in the dust.
And we did it. We crossed the finish line on stubborn, tired, dragging legs. But we crossed. Together.
We got the medals. We wore the bibs. But let’s be honest: Holden came for the post-race snacks… every bite earned, every step a reminder that even the smallest strides forward are worth celebrating.
 |
| 11/26/23 |
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
No comments