It is Wednesday. The wind is crisp, blowing dust across the field. My glove on my left hand feels like an anchor, holding me to this earth. The guards on my shins are cold to the touch, but they keep the warmth in.
My mask obscures the field in front of me, but I know the scene by heart. The pitcher begins her wind-up, the batter tenses and prepares to swing.
I know she will miss.
I push myself from my toes to my heels, my thighs holding my weight. My face, my glove, and my shin guards - "my legs," I call them, almost affectionately - are all that the infielders can see.
I watch the ball curve and dip, moving my outstretched arm with it. The batter swings.
The ball slams into my glove. The umpire grunts, an almost perfect echo of the thump the ball makes as it settles into my hand. A strike.
I smile at the pitcher, my teammate, and throw the ball back to her.
I wonder what my mother would think, if she were here. We always argued about softball, and we always sat down on the couch and picked apart every detail of every game.
I wonder if she can see me now. I wonder if she would be proud.
The wind blows stronger now, rocking me on my feet, but I am steady.
YOU ARE READING
Orange Sunday
Teen FictionGrief can be a blur, a loss of sensation, a nightmare you can't seem to escape. But sometimes, it can wake you up. --- I wrote this when I was mourning a relationship. I'm publishing it now to close the door on those feelings.
