To hear of varsity baseball once more.
Final game for state champ in ’58.
Rock foot to foot at short.
Four-three lead.
Bottom of the ninth.
Three-one count.
One out.
Bases loaded.
Breathe.
Runner on first bolts.
Crack.
Ball hops off second.
Slap against leather.
Jimmy flicks wrist.
Clean catch.
Toe-tap the bag.
Leap over sliding cleats.
Sling cross-body.
Second leather slap.
Ref punches the air.
Bleachers roar.
I’m kneeling in the dirt every Sunday afternoon, spraying down the granite stone with your name carved in all caps. Your glove has wilted flat to the ground一I prop it back up. I’ll sit here awhile thinking about the times I meant to call, to ask about your youth, inherit your memory. I’ll linger, create histories, invent connections from pieces of truth. I’ll imagine myself at your grave as I sit at this table, crafting a fantasy of myself as much as you.
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