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I rolled my giant suitcase off the cruise ship into a Port of Miami corridor, toward the elevator lobby.

A crowd of other cruisers congregated in front of the lone elevator that led downstairs to customs. The crowd fell into a long line, dragging their big bags and tucking their Border Patrol forms into their passports. I would have followed suit. But I saw an escalator.

An escalator without a line.

So in one fist, I held my passport, my floppy beach hat and my purse. I wrapped the other around my giant suitcase’s handle. And at the top of the down escalator, I stepped on, expecting physics or science or magic to require the giant suitcase to trail behind me.

But the suitcase didn’t trail. It tipped, and fell forward, just shy of onto the escalator. In the process, physics or science or magic required my fist to release its grip on the suitcase’s handle. And while I descended toward customs, I watched my giant suitcase — now blocking the entrance to the down escalator — become smaller and smaller and smaller.

Which is when I shouted the only word I quickly concluded to be appropriate upon accidental abandonment of giant suitcase:

“HELP!”

As it turns out, it takes a special set of skills to drag a giant suitcase onto a down escalator. A set of skills I don’t possess.

A witness to my plight, the port authority employee at the top of the down escalator pulled on my suitcase and put it upright.

Which is when I pulled the only stunt I quickly concluded to be appropriate upon accidental abandonment of giant suitcase:

An upward climb on a downward-bound escalator.

As it turns out, it takes a special set of skills to run up a down escalator. A set of skills I don’t possess.

I tripped.

And I fell.

And on my hands and knees, I watched my giant suitcase become even smaller.

I still have bruises.

– – – – –

This post is part of a series of true stories, called “True Story.” Click here to read all the posts in the series.

Three years old and already into books, I browsed a bookshelf in my preschool classroom. That’s when I saw it:

The flip book.

I flipped through it. I flipped through it again. Over and over, I watched the magic of the animation created by my flipping. That’s when I knew it:

I wanted the book.

So I clutched it between my two tiny hands and carried it to my teacher.

“Can I have this?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

So, shortly after – when I knew she wasn’t looking – I took the only next step I could conceptualize as natural: I stuffed it into my shirt and went to recess.

Outside, I sat in the grass. Kids my own age climbed and kicked balls and dug holes. Older kids rolled a tire to and from each other at the top of a hill.

Until one kid missed his turn.

The renegade tire rolled with reckless abandon, down the hill, through the grass and rammed directly…

into me.

Which is when my teacher ran to me.

“Are you ok?” she said. She moved the tire.

I nodded.

“What is this?”

She pointed at what had flown out of my shirt on impact:

the flip book.

– – – – –

This post is part of a series called “True Story.” Click here to read other posts in the series.

I am not a runner.

So it was weird when before 5 on a summer morning, I put on a pair of running shoes. For a month, I had been working out from 5:30 to 6:30 weekday mornings with a trainer named Frank and the others who had signed up for his boot camp.

We met in a parking lot, empty except for our own cars, outside the clubhouse in a local subdivision. We stretched. We squatted, curled and pressed. That morning, the last day of camp, we each would run a timed mile to compare to the one we ran the first week of camp.

We stood side by side in a line, under the black sky. Frank fiddled with the stopwatch. He said go. We ran. He had already measured it: If we ran from where we stood in line to a gated neighborhood north of us and back, we would run a mile.

On the street, I ran, jogged, walked. Ran, jogged, walked. Over and over, slower than most but faster than some, in the Florida heat and through the thick humidity. I got to the gate. My lungs hurt. I turned around, and I ran, jogged, walked. Ran, jogged, walked.

By the time I could see the parking lot again, the black sky had turned to royal blue. The sun had started to rise. I jogged. My lungs pushed air out and took it in, hard. I turned into the lot. I could see Frank. So I sprinted. My feet and my lungs pounded with rhythm.

Pound, pound, in.

Pound, pound, out.

Faster.

Pound, pound, in.

Pound, pound, out.

Faster.

Toward our parked cars.

Faster.

Past our parked cars.

Faster.

“DONE!”

I collapsed onto the pavement, on purpose. My chest rose high and fell deep, air in and out (but not enough). Frank read my results:

11 minutes.

I began to cry.

“Are you ok?”

I nodded yes. And in tears, I did the math.

I had finished the mile run four minutes faster than my first one.

– – – – –

This post is part of a series called “True Story.” Click here to read other posts in the series.