The jump
I walked. And my heart begun to pound.
Everything zeroing into the moment.
Past, future… and every possible permutation, softly dissipating.
It was a duel, as I solemnly turned my back and walked the agreed upon twenty steps.
I felt like a pirate walking through the plank, everyone around in absolute silence.
The air suddenly stood still, trees and branches held their breath, birds disappeared.
The overture of a Requiem had begun.
When I stopped at the last step I took a deep breath and slowly turned around to face my enemy.
I stared at it for a couple of seconds.
My friends stood like Roman gladiators, looking at me with respect, even admiration.
It was a late Saturday afternoon right before sundown.
Soon enough, and we all knew it, our mothers would call us to go home, have supper, take a shower.
But no one was going anywhere. At least not for the next 20 seconds.
Back then, every single Saturday was a lifetime.
The ramp we spent all day building to attempt the 10 feet jump across our neighborhood’s park water canal looked strong enough.
So did my bike. I jumped on it and pedaled as if my life depended on it.
A last thought crossed my mind:
“Minutes before, I drew the shortest stick among everyone but,
was it really the shortest stick?”