Death, it’s always there—looming, crawling, whispering, a presence thick like fog in the back of your mind. It’s never far off, never taking a day off. But I’m faster. I outrun it, or at least I like to think I do. I lace up my James Worthy New Balances—bright, ridiculous shoes, names that could’ve only come out of an era where names meant something—but that’s the thing. They’re the only part of me I can trust, the only part that doesn’t betray me as I tear across the canal bank, my legs pistoning in the heat. Todo. Todo. Todo. Every step, every breath, one word, one answer: a mantra, a prayer, a defiant rally against the relentless countdown that never stops.
Luis, always the prophet, always the one to speak the truth
of the moment: "How much can change in an instant? His voice in my ear
from June, and the answer, Everything. Life to death, a blink of an
eye. I can’t say it didn’t stick with me—didn’t worm its way in like a bad
song. And then, the Blue Angels come crashing into my universe, a blur of blue
and white streaks, a performance of beauty and violence, like some messed-up
metaphor for this thing we call life. The earth shakes, the sound’s almost a
physical thing, rattling my bones as they peel away into the sky. A giant claw
mark on the world’s face. The wind picks up again, hot and insistent from the
south, pushing me forward like some unseen force.
And still, I run. Todo. There’s no real finish line.
There’s only the chase, the sweat, the air, the ground beneath me. Death’s
behind me, keeping pace, but I won’t let it have me. Not yet. Not today. I’ll
outrun it for as long as I can.
