Finish Line

On September 11, 2001, the finish line was when Mike showed up at my office covered in dust.  Or so I thought.

Then we had to get home.  Under the ground, over a bridge, and underground again.  Then we had to convince ourselves that we were safe.  Then we had to peel ourselves away from the news.  Then we had to leave the house.  Then we had to return to work.  Then we had to go back to living our lives.  Then we had to learn how to be happy without feeling bad about it.

Nearly twelve years later, it seems like life is a never-ending series of finish lines.

This morning, at the Stephen Siller Tunnel to Towers 5K, an annual race in honor of all those sacrificed in the line of duty on 9/11, this was what I saw when I ran across the finish line:

On that horrific day under a warm sun and flawless blue sky, I never in my wildest dreams would have predicted this life and these beautiful people in it.

Life is still sweet, hills are still no big deal, and, as it turns out, every finish line leads to the beginning of a new race.

Grateful Proud Fortunate Happy Strong Exhausted Runaway Mama.