Halfway through the marathon, I stumble. My laces come loose and each breath I take attempts to suck the life out of me. It’s tough but I go on, albeit a slower speed.
Another quarter of the race left to go. I watch as my friends surge ahead, gaining momentum and looking to the finish line. I look around for the finishing point, but it’s still not in sight. A little more, come on.
At this juncture, I pass by a water point. Should I grab a cup? Exhausted, I ignore the hand offering me the drink and continue trudging ahead. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. My legs weigh a ton. I can’t go on, I can’t do this.
Suddenly, a supportive hand slips into mine and pulls me along. We’re reaching the end, don’t give up now. It’s an arduous task, this race. The hand firmly clasps mine in his (hers); we continue the race in tandem.
The finish line is in sight, finally! Cheers bellow around me and the hand tugs me like a string nearer to the line, inching closer with each step.
I pass the line, at long last. No arms raised up in victory, but collapsed limbs. I never thought I could get to the end. Catching mouthfuls of air, I glance around for that sturdy hand. Alas, I cannot find it. Or him (her).
Slightly disappointed, but it’s alright. I’ll wait for that pulling hand once again. Perhaps I’ll go find it. Then we’ll complete the next race together, arms raised at the end next time round.
And I’ll be sure to thank you, thank you for never giving up on me, before you go again.