The Catching Machine

So, I’m kind of a dork when it comes to American sports, but my friend showed me her softball glove last night. It was her grandfathers glove, and as I took the glove from her, it felt heavy in my hands.

Light brown from wear and tear, the glove looked rugged and resolute. I opened it up and ran my fingers along the inside of it. I wondered how many games this glove had seen, how many great catches it had enabled. How maybe, My friends’ grandfather passed it on to his children as he taught them to catch and pitch. Maybe there had been sunday afternoons, the sun shining brightly where a father had passed on legacy to a child. 

There was some kind of security in the glove, some attachment to it. Maybe “The catching machine” is called that, not because its stopped umpteen grounders or gripped and snatched hurtling balls right out of the atmosphere, but because over the span of three generations, it has caught a glimpse of love and affection and bonds between father and child. 

The Traffic Light

The rain was pouring down. like little drops of ice against my upturned face. Walking down the paved street, I wasn’t sure I liked the rain just yet. i opened my eyes, and stuck my tongue out, deciding that I liked the feel of the cold wet drops. waiting my turn to cross the street at the traffic light, someone emerged out of the darkness, and slowly made her way to where i was standing. the girl seemed to be around 14, and It was more than obvious that she was homeless. all that covered her thin ragged body was an oversize shirt, no doubt picked from some dumpster. She came closer, and her eyes shone bright. She seemed oblivious to the cold wind and the rain. Tiny diamond like sparkles of water glistened on her dark, tousled hair.

“You like the rain?” she enquired. It sounded more like a conclusion to an observation than a question.

“I do.”

“You don’t mind the cold?” I asked with a disapproving look at her thin, barely covered body.

“No more than the cold minds me, i suppose”, she replied.

“You live around here?” I enquired of her.

“I dont live anywhere.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, home.”

“I though you didn’t live anywhere.” I asked with growing curiosity. There was something about her that drew me to her.

“Home is where I lay my head down. I have new homes each day. It is a sad thing, to have just one home.” She had a glimmer of challenge in her eyes.

“Contentment is something I do not wish to have, and it makes me happy.”

“You like the rain?” I questioned, puzzled by her answers.

“The rain likes me.”

The light changed, and I started to walk across, and she yelled out to me from the sidewalk - “You should go home too.”

I stopped. turned back at her - “I intend to. someday.”

I crossed the street.

And wondered which way was home.