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Across the yard she chased me

broom raised high, an instrument

for punishment because she

didn’t understand. So, I

ran on winged feet like Hermes;

legs strong, like pistons pumping;

lungs like bellows pushing air;

breathing evenly, in----out.

Youth was on my side, a clear

advantage. I was a young

girl running, running, running

from being taught a lesson,

a lesson in discipline

for being rebellious.

Faster and faster I ran,

mother close behind with broom

aloft and waving; chickens

scattered in our wake; the dog,

a collie, tried to herd us

while Ruby, the Jersey cow,

let out a moo. I was in

the lead of this strange stampede:

a Norman Rockwell scene. Tears

slowed me; I could run no more.

The race was a comedy----

a camaraderie of

mother and daughter, we laughed

and cried and laughed, then cried and

hugged and cried and laughed some more.