For Sam

You’re hungry. A growl rumbles through your stomach and along your bones. Not unbearable, not yet. But soon. And aches grow all over, your calves and ankles and knees jolt and jump as they slam the pavement. Over and over. God, how you hate to run.

Your thoughts wander as you move through the route. An awareness of what surrounds you starts to flood your senses. People scream and there's the yell of young ones as you fly by them. The mercy of trees and the shade they possess offer short comfort. Bugs and gnats are at your ears. And sweat pools near your eyes, your drenched spandex chaffs. Gatorade gets shoved toward your face and you down the beverage. One gulp, gone.

The ache at the soles of your feet takes your focus back to the task at hand. The marathon. A whole god damn marathon, for Sam. For a man who would have gladly laughed at your attempt from the comfort of a couch or a barstool. A man who would take one look at another spandex-covered person as they trot along, jerked a thumb at them, and scoffed, “Get a load of that asshole” and then you would have joked about the runner for the rest of the day.

Sam, who was effortlessly funny, but a down to earth type of funny, would have teased you endlessly. But he was also the type of person who, when you were seven years old, pushed another seven year old to the ground because they made fun of your Power Rangers lunch box. The type of guy who made sure you had the best bachelor party anyone could ask for, because he knew you would never ask. The person who shows up unannounced for Monday football, beers for each of you. Also, the type of guy who would never ever run a damn marathon. Sports were meant to be observed, cheered, and celebrated. Sam never engaged.

Turns out, he was also the guy who got cancer. When you hear that word parts of you go dark, and then you watch as parts of your second self go dark as well. You wonder, why does cancer seem to erase all other accolades a person has ever gotten? The best man? Nope, now he’s the best man who got cancer. Doctor? No, he's actually a doctor that got cancer, how sad. “Hey wasn’t that the guy who played college football and won the Rose Bowl?” People ask. “Yeah, but he has cancer now so that sucks.” People respond.

Cancer spreads, more than just one way, apparently. When you heard the news, you marveled at how cancer spread to every part of Sam’s essence. And how the spread affected you.

Your stomach grumbles for a second and then stops. Your neck burns, and there's an agony that reaches up and down your back. Escalated by each pound and slam of feet on the cement. And now somehow, your crotch hurts. You can nearly hear Sam's laugh boom across the street. Focus. You have to go all the way to the end. No matter how much he laughs.

When the doctors began to pronounce health plans and then all the treatments started, there was endless hopefulness. “They say the enzyme treatment works wonders, he’ll be okay.” Those words haunt you as you pass the halfway mark. He’ll be okay. What a waste of hope. What torment three words can cause. What a farce to hear those words, when later he was at what's known as Stage Three. You reflect back on when you repeated those words to Sam’s spouse, Shea. Hugs, held hands, wet eyes, and falsehoods. You wonder, why would the doctors say that? Then you wonder, why would you say that? Hope, much the same as cancer, became a malady that tormented your greater powers of reason.

Then he passed. Sam was gone. Four months ago he was here. And now? Now what? Your best pal has departed the earth and you’re the dumbass barely able to breath as you reach the last relay spot. A thought floats by that you latch onto: you're close to the end.

But you couldn’t say no could you? Not when Sam’s coworkers texted you and asked you to take part. “For cancer research, and Sam’s memory” the text read. What the hell. You were angry. Who the hell were these people? They barely knew Sam! A phrase you would repeat to your own spouse ad nauseam. You couldn’t let a bunch of strangers run for your…? Your what? Your brother? Not completely factual on a genealogy level. Your best buddy? Not profound enough. Your best man? Yes, but that was for one day. Forget the label. Absolutely not! You would not let them arrange an event for Sam. “They don’t even know Sam!” You yelled at your very concerned partner. He was yours. How dare they try to assert how much they knew Sam. How dare they suggest a marathon! Bereft people don’t run marathons. Everyone knows that. Morons.

But that was that, and you couldn’t be left out. So you ran. You don’t regret the marathon. But you don’t love the run at all. Not when you can pretty much see Sam and hear a roar of laughter. You can see the broad shoulders shake and the slap of Sam’s hand on the nearest surface.

So even now, you run. You’re close to the end and you can see the crowd of onlookers grow. A tune floats on the breeze that you vaguely remember from two decades ago. You run towards the crowd. You run for Sam and for Shea who he fought desperately for. You run for Sam’s toddler and unborn baby. You run for cancer research. You run because you sort of hate the coworkers who texted you. You run for you and the hope that the slap of your feet on pavement cleanses the sorrow and heartbreak and anger from your soul.

And you run even though you’re hungry and aches course through every part of your body. You run because you're so desperately sad and marathons suck. You run so that Sam has a laugh all the way up there as he looks down. So he can jerk a thumb at you and shout, “Hey! Good job asshole.”