with him on a warm, sunny afternoon in April. This was before Jim, his wife’s breast cancer and my alcoholism. This was before masks and distancing. It
was a model day back then. Boys playing baseball in the field. A fly ball landed by his heels. He picked it up and threw it back. I chewed on a blade of grass. I don’t have days like that
now, not with him. Not with anyone. The sun still shines a honey blossom. But I play dead as a possum. The grass is overgrown, as are the memories. The boys in the field are now
men. And the only thing I lay on is my sofa. All I chew is my lip. I’ll not let slip the cast on this broken scene - was it real or a hibiscus? Whatever it is I'm its mistress.