Sunday, March 18, 2012
The clouds were skittering over the Loyola Marymount baseball batting cages this morning where I sat on a ridge of cement while Henry practiced. It rained all day yesterday, and the grass was wet, the curb where I perched the only dry surface. The flag snapped in the wind, the chain pinging the pole, and the chink of the ball hitting the bat, over and over lulled me into lifting my face to receive the wind. A white-haired man walked up to and began patiently hitting a golf ball, over and over, on a nearby putting green and I looked out onto the expanse of green seeing myself somehow shed of any person-weight, flipping over and over like the pitch and the putt, hand springs and back springs I've never once done.