One of my first, and most treasured childhood memories is of me standing at the top of an old wooden tower at a park, playing the Gingerbread Man game with my father. At age four, I always took the role of the gingerbread man who had to escape the fiery oven, and the clutches of the wicked old witch, my father, to prevent being baked and eaten. I still remember the thrill of being chased in between and around the playground equipment shrieking excitedly as he would come just close enough to feel his hand brush past my arm, letting me go just long enough to experience a few more moments of freedom. Heart feverishly racing, I would give a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure he was nowhere near, climb with excitement to highest point I could find, and with all the energy I could muster shout out “run run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man.” This game would go on for what seemed like hours, as over and over the wicked old witch would capture the Gingerbread Man, throw her back into the oven, only to start the game all over again.
I can’t help but think back to the days in the park, and how closely a silly childhood game could parallel life. Death has a funny way of always chasing right behind us, sometimes getting just close enough for us to feel its breath, only to let us go long enough to stand atop the tallest safest point we can find and yell, run run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man.
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