I found three yellow wiffle bats in a garage.
I found some comfort there.
I took only one, and Frisbees to call home and each base.
I left several wiffle balls in a net, in a box, in case we lost the ones we had.
I insisted we play.
What else were we to do?
After a death, what else can one do but play?
So we did, between bites of noodles and cookies given by friends.
It is harder to cry when playing a game.
There was time for that, of course. There is always time.
And moments to recall a field he’d made on his farm.
But the field was gone, and so was he.
So I found the bats, bases and balls.
And we continued to play.
For we are here now.
by 