Playing Catch with My Dad

ball-and-glove

Tossing the ball
back and forth
from hand to air to glove
The sound of it, leather
hitting leather, a satisfying thud. The quick flip
from glove to hand,
arm opening like the letter C
the lob back.
In the air a white and red striped bird flying its course.
Back and forth
we’d toss the ball
as the sun sat lower
in the boughs of the trees. Shadows fell on the grass,
on him. By then my arm
knew exactly where to send it, the ball knew how to find him, his glove, his hand.
We never talked much
and if we did it was small stuff. How school was going, how things were at the office, troubles with this city,
those Cubs, these Twins.
All that mattered
was the sound of the ball
as he caught it,
over and over and
over again.

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