Arabic Skies

My spongy hands dig deep into the damp, grassy field. My legs are planted in an up-right position, ready to pounce at any notice. My eyes shift towards the man to my right, also firmly entrenched in a position of alertness. “Ready.. Steady.. Go!” he shouts out loud. My heartbeat flutters, as do my legs, which rise three feet into the air. Like a racehorse released from its cage, I launch with a powerful burst of force akin to that of an Olympic athlete. The terrain feels like sponge cake as my feet dart across its auspice plain. I see the sinewed shape of his back ahead of me. I am in awe over the rapid, swift strides he takes with ease. I summon every ounce of energy within my tiny, elastic body as I eye the finish line twenty strides ahead. My breath turns into a deep hoarse pant, my lungs expand, stealing as much air as they possibly can. My legs grow lighter and my arms flail up and down without any thought from my brain. My body is instinctively using every filament within its limbs, blood vessels, organs and sinew to rush forward to the finish line. No brain activity is required. The heart simply understands my will and forces my legs forth with a passionate, persuasive push. I look to my right and my body is now horizontally even with his. Less than ten paces from the finish line. My body starts to gain distance from his. I am winning, I think to myself. With little breath left in me, I begin to laugh. My body is weightless. He smiles as he crosses the finish line behind me. My legs flop onto the ground beneath me. The cool wetness of the grass welcomes me. I look up and watch the mist smear the purple sky. The sun is beginning to rise to the east. Strange sounds from afar can be heard. No words are exchanged between my father and I. None are needed. Heads leaned back, we lay sprawled on earth and laugh like Kings. Our bodies take in the magnetic morning and our eyes are drawn to the masterfully arranged Arabic sky. The year is 1989. We are in Cairo, Egypt.