Running,

racing across the

carpeted floor

of my first home,

a condo on a lake,

swaying, stumbling,

but not

falling, not this time.

Running

from the grasp of

my mother’s hands to my father’s hands,

when I get to him,

not falling, not once,

he picks me up

his hands dwarfing

me

he holds me

above his head,

triumphantly smiling

Running

through an empty field,

in the distance my mother yells

“it isn’t a race.”

but to my sister and me it is

she is

Running

beside me,

leaves coated

In a thin film

of frost crinkle

beneath our boots.

I start

Running

faster, determined to reach

the other side

before my sister.

The air is cold

hinting at the winter

to come.

Running,

the leather leash

digging into my hand

not enough to cut

but

just enough to

hurt.

Luna, an English

Black Lab,

pulls on the leash

as she races down the street.

In January

we will have to give her up.

we raised her and trained her

for a year

a year that is almost

finished

after her time

with us is up

she will go back to

Leader Dogs for the Blind.

We trained her to

be a service dog

and she will be.

Still.

She races down the street

dragging me behind her,

Running.