Ten years old now. His feet grew to continents in the first pandemic months. Dusty & hot, we went to hit. I windmilled an old arm around for a minute before pitching. Then he stepped up and hit
ball after
ball after
ball into deep July, past the emptiness on every base, past the grasshoppers in the outfield, past the ghosts of absence in the four rows of curled, flaking wooden bleachers. A crow called out. We kept going. I pitched & he smacked balls all over the field
past nothing,
into nothing,
baking in the sun.