Under a pile of tattered magazines from ’78
sat my father’s old, dusty glove like
some archaeological object waiting to be rediscovered.
Picking it up, I run my hand across its leather, and memories
flash through my mind like a rewinding Time/Space Continuum.
The smell of fresh dew through the mist hovering over
the diamond in the field we use to play in.
Laughing with my old man as we play catch under the sun
in the backyard and argue over the stats from last night’s game.
My father’s strong hand patting me on the back to convey the
pride he was never able to express with his own words.
Taking a breath, I put that beautiful piece of History
on over my own hand, and in that moment,
I could sense my father telling me that he loved me yet again.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME