Mirrors

Tennis

Chapter Nine:

Tennis

There I was, back in the shadowed depths of the ocean. The farther I swam toward the bottom, the more repressed the memories. There must be an object here that I could use, I thought to myself. There were so many items to choose: jewelry, teddy bears, journals, etc. They were everything that I had acquired during my short lifetime. I didn’t know which to choose. Would any of them prove significant to finding whatever it is needed to move on?

I spotted a painter’s easel; it was the same one I’d been using since the sixth grade. Painting became a hobby right before . . .

Maybe that easel is better suited for later, I thought.

Socks appeared again, placing a tennis ball in front of me. She disappeared in a blink of an eye. A tennis ball; would this be it?

“Thank you,” I called out to the empty world, hoping my little rattie would hear me.

I tossed the ball up, letting it float ahead of me. My hand wrapped around its furry surface, trying to remember something significant related to it. Tennis was my favorite sport; there had to be something about it. When I had nothing in mind, I threw the ball in frustration.

From out of the blue, the mirror appeared on the ball’s path. The ball zoomed through it, going into the portal that led to a memory I couldn’t recall. There was no more deliberating; I had to swim through that liquified surface. I pushed myself forward, ready to face anything.

“Hey! That’s unfair!”

“What do you mean unfair? Both of you are against me.”

“You’re the only one who could actually play!”

“That’s why it’s two against one!”

The entrance was the same: a bright light greeted me. The setting was different: I found myself in the middle of a tennis court beside the net. The kids argued instead of played; two of which had no idea how to hold a racquet. One of them shrugged, rolling her eyes at every complaint thrown at her. Little Irene—that girl was me. Those two little boys on the other side of the green-colored court were my cousins: Jaren and Oliver.

They hit the ball back and forth. The ball passed through me, ignoring my existence. At one point it passed between Jaren and Oliver, hitting the twenty-foot tall fence that surrounded the court.  Jaren and Oliver ran into each other, bumping their heads against each other. They groaned, rubbing their foreheads to sooth them.

I sighed, wondering why my tennis ball brought me to such a peaceful place. There was nothing vital about a bunch of fourth graders learning how to play tennis. Or I might have missed something.

I walked away, heading towards the sidelines to sit and watch. As time passed by, all three children began to enjoy themselves.

“This is funner than I thought,” Jaren admitted as he and his cousins sat on a bench for a break. “I like it a lot.”

“Funner isn’t a word,” Oliver grumbled. He turned to little Irene, “Yeah, Irene,” Oliver nodded in agreement.

“We should do this more often,” he added after taking a sip of his bottled water.

“Funner is too a word,” Jaren protested.

“It’s a word, but it’s not proper,” Oliver snorted. “You just made yourself sound like a five-year-old.”

“Whatever,” Jaren mumbled.

“Anyways,” little Irene began, trying to change the subject, “I told you that you’d love to play tennis with me.”