Down the stretch they scampered, dripping into the final lap. Each drop struggled for pole position against the opposition. The crowd favorite, the number one rain drop in the first lane, inched out a slight lead in front of the number two drop. Whirling past the cluttered crowd, the number four made his desperation push.
The finish line drew near and the crowd rose to their stems. Leaves, trees and flowers all swayed in the wind, anticipating the number one drop to win. The number one, no! The number four, no!
Out of nowhere the number seven bolted by, with help from a nearby autumn breeze and won! On a day when the sun drifted away behind the clouds, one winner towered above all. The number seven raindrop won and quickly disappeared into the frantic media frenzy fighting for a post-game interview.
The race ended, the fans traveled home and I wandered back to my own starting line. Waiting, watching and wondering.
For many days, no, many weeks I paced back and forth near the door, hoping it would make its Hollywood appearance. The calendar pages crumbled in the corner of the room, lying like a pile of leaves a young child was about to jump into and scatter across the street.
Time, time lingered over me as if it was a gloomy, black cloud. Every day at noon, the clock would dong, dong, but my hands only grasped onto hope.
Once it appeared, I would blossom from a girl to a woman, spreading my multicolored wings. All eyes, cameras and attention would point at me, awaiting my every breath.
My ears rang and I jolted out of my chair. I picked up the hem of dress to insure it didn’t get dirty and strolled down the red carpet. On my left, the paparazzi pushed back and forth trying to snap a perfect picture. On my right, media members, pens in hand, jotted down my every action.
Flash, flash, cameras snapped pictures as I spun toward the door. Microphones shoved into my face, but I pushed them away, as I strolled on by. I reached my limo, turned back, flipped my hair and gave my crowd one more wave goodbye, knowing they constantly desired more. I flung open my limo and my chauffeur held out his hands and gave me it.
I grabbed a pair of scissors and snip, snip, sniped across the top of the box. My eyes stretched wide as a child, as she jumps into a playpen full of colorful balls. Me, I jumped into a playpen of Styrofoam peanuts.
I caressed it, held it up to the light, and watched wide-eyed as it glimmered and danced. I gently dropped it back in the box; put it in a nice cozy corner and I plopped back near the window.
I peeked back out the window waiting, watching and wondering what time the second race kicked off.