Each time it’s the same.
A small group of hikers.
Then the sound of a young boy’s leg breaking,
Like a matchstick.
In an instant, there’s a call for volunteers.
Something makes me come forward,
And I am inevitably chosen.
When I start out on my journey,
It seems that I’m running down the side of a mountain,
Over what seems like miles of sheer rock,
Dangerously stacked against me.
As I continue down the steep grade, I appear to be a 30ish-looking man.
Worn down a bit by life, but somehow still strong.
Still in the game.
A seeker, even.
Perhaps a father.
Armed with only determined eyes and the sinewy legs of my bygone youth,
I descend the craggy rock,
In search of help for a fallen child.
A one last hope.
A small boy’s one chance in hell.
The only man for the job.
I remember thinking that this must be some sort of odd glimpse into the future,
Some prelude to reality.
A representation of an event that has yet to occur,
One foreseeable future.
So, I’ve stayed strong,
Dedicated myself to staying ready.
Just in case that fallen boy ends up being my son.
©1999 by John L. Fischer