Ten.One Thousand, Nine Hundred & Forty-Eight
Physical therapy for him.
I’m trying to get back to the car, but we are still talking about weights.
Game day.
No podcast. Music. Bush: Little Things. Sunshine.
He takes us outside to listen to the mockingbirds and points out the finches. I get permission to trim branches off the olive trees.
Bizarro world.
I walk around the building, trying to open all the doors. Everything is locked. I walk back to the office. “Isn’t preview day today?” “Tomorrow,” she says. “Well. That makes sense.” On the upside, I am hungry and get back to the office for my carne asada.
I almost start sweating while sitting in the stands. This sun. So grateful for this sun.
3-3 at the bottom of the 7th, but he’s about to go up to bat, so I walk briskly from the softball field to the bathroom, decide to cut across the track, and get the stands just in time to see him hit a double.
I wonder if he notices how much I stare at him. How much I’m trying not to stare at him. Him with his long legs and long arms and long fingers. I think about the baby pictures that will go into the yearbook his senior year.
