One by One by One by One

　　Six miles, I tell myself. Only four to go. One plus one plus one plus one.

　　It feels a little fuzzy in my head. Like I’ve got the wrong number of ones. Like I’m so fatigued that I can’t even count to four.

　　One plus one plus one plus one.

　　And somewhere in my fuzzy mind I make a connection—that’s how everything is done.

　　One by one by one by one.

　　That’s how I got through losing a leg.

　　Minute by minute by minute by minute.

　　Hour by hour by hour by hour.

　　Day by day by day by day.

　　That’s how anybody makes it through anything.

　　So I dig in and decide that’s how I’ll face the miles ahead—one by one by one by one.

　　Something in that makes the pain easier to take, makes the effort easier to endure. And then, near the seven-mile mark, I realize we’re passing by the cemetery.

　　I think about seeing Lucy’s mom there the other morning.

　　I think about her making it through what had to be the hardest days of her life; how she had to take the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, one by one by one by one.

　　Suddenly I’m grateful that the ones I’m counting off are miles. Miles I’m able to run. Miles I asked for. Miles I’ve worked hard to face. My ones are a distance between me and victory, not days between me and tragedy.

The Running Dream, p328
Wendelin Van Draanen
ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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