I can still see the growing green grass covering the lumps and molehills of a baseball diamond. A slice of a red barn cuts through my vision. And somewhere, where I can’t see, my grandfather walks between the yellow backhoe…
Tag: mourning
When the sun slips into a dusky grey, one gathers gloves with some reluctance. One picks up bats that lean against a backstop, and searches for baseballs in the tall grass somewhere in left center. Of course, there is a…