Backstory: Glamis has been living at Companion Animal Hospital and their staff (who also happen to be Connecticut family and friends) asked us if we wanted to be on their softball team. They pitched it (that's a good pun) as Friday night drinking, low key, lousiest team in the league, we're just going for fun. We signed up, and suddenly the drill sergeant ordered uniforms, cleats, and practices.
The last glove I bought was in Kentucky, and I've used it for over 25 years. When I went to the garage, it almost melted like butter in my hands. I don't think I've been on a baseball or softball team since the blue grass days. Yikes. That' crazy.
Anyway, Chitunga said, "Yes," first and I thought, "Why not?" I figured I could be a mascot. Then, in Walmart as I found myself being totally Dad-ish and over purchasing, we had a little practice session in aisle 38 (back of the store). Okay, Chitunga ran track. He played football. One's athleticism in one sport doesn't necessarily translate to another. We simply tried to play catch. In his words, "I think I have a little progress to make."
He's an accountant. A numbers guy. It's been 7 years since high school (really) and he and I never played catch. We did corn hole, volleyball, football, 5 Ks, but not baseball/softball. I would think one sport would translate to other, but that's not how it goes. Coach Crandall kicked in gear quickly. We have a lot to do on Friday before we have our 6:30 pm practice under the lights in Milford.
For Chitunga's Easter basket, he's getting lessons, a new glove, softballs, and a new bat. He's also totally allowed to run for me, because I can hit, and I can field, but I'm scared to death about running bases and having my knee-cap fly off or my hip dislocating.
Meanwhile, It's April and I'm following Sarah Donovan's Ethical ELA #VerseLove poetry challenge and knowing the kid is pretty much done with Mt. Pleasant (and he's 25, not 23, but 23 worked in my rhyme scheme), this was my first poem. We were assigned to write about shadows. And knowing how my brain works, I assigned myself a villanelle to contain it. Yes, the bird nests are back and, yes, I merged scenarios, but this is a paternal poem of where I am write now.
But today, after yesterday's poetry prompt and my Walmart revelation, (and feeding my cousin and his girls), I'm teaching softball, 101.
while hiking in a villanelle of shadows
(& knowing it’s time) ~b.r.c.
His steps are wider than they used to be,
faster, q u i c k e r across fallen leaves
leaving me to follow his shadows, from what i can see
in a shaded quest of his own sunlit journey.
How interesting forest light, how it deceives
his steps, wider than they used to be.
Cuz it seems i was young once, too, just 23
before hourglasses turned, years flicker like thieves
leaving me to follow his shadows, from what i can see.
Another season of sparrows, nesting, before they fly free
have settled on our porch again, permanence reprieves
these life-steps w i d e r than they used to be.
Father. Son, growing, yet retreating, a sense of family
the way an introverted extrovert interweaves
what’s left to follow in these shadows, from what i can see,
hiking behind his footsteps (that once followed me)
soaring ahead, these cycles, as he achieves
steps wider than they used to be,
leaving me to follow in shadows, from what i can see.
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