Molly and I, like garbage blowing in the wind, the ruling runway below our feet. The still sand at the end, as still as can be.

Our spikes, both as pretty as the twinkle in a glowing blue eye. Long laces tied in tight knots, knots so tight they look like tiny stars in the sky, stars in the sky that are miles away. Our jerseys, silky like straightened hair, are worn the whole meet.

Once we are done jumping, we trot back to our towering tent. The sound of metal spikes on cement as ugly as a bad hair day. Once we arrive at the tent, our phones, as excited as we are from people asking how we did, we get to tell them we got a shiny medal to add to our current collection.