On a cold November night
I started cleaning out an old closet
looking for my childhood amid the
ancient notebooks, discarded electronics,
and little-worn or remembered clothing.
I finally found the Holy Grail of my youth –
my tattered and treasured first baseman’s glove.
With patched leather and loose strings,
and the red Rawlings label,
I clutched it close to my heart,
imagining once more
tricky grounders and scooped-up throws
gently nestling into the lobster claw of my mitt.
Few items in my closet
generated such tender memories
of waiting for the next batter
to hit a screaming liner my way.
I considered placing my glove on an honored shelf,
but decided instead it was best
to acknowledge my advanced years,
and not dwell on or romanticize the past,
so impossible to retrieve.
I put the glove back in the closet,
and closed the door.