This post is part of the Secret Messages Project. Every day for thirty days, I’ll leave my words in places where they might be found — or might never be found at all. I hope you’ll join me.
Today, as I write this, sleet patters my windows, and the cold moves through the house like a fog. It slides beneath the window sashes and drifts, slow, two feet from the floor.
Yesterday, though —
Yesterday afternoon was shot through with sun, almost warm enough to pass for early spring. I drove away from work early, windows down and radio up.
And suddenly I had summer on my mind.
I drove to the ballpark – the one in Wasena, down by the river – and found myself kicking around in the rust-colored dirt of the baseball diamond, my stilettos leaving sharp divots wherever I walked.
I stood for awhile in the batter’s box, and then leaned on the fencing behind home plate — hooked my fingers in the chain link and let the sun flicker over my face until I could almost hear it: all the sounds and shouts and laughter that belong in such a place … Mid-July, sky painfully blue, air thick with flies and summer swelter.
After awhile I took a piece of parchment out of my bag and scribbled down a few words. Then I curled the paper into a roll and tucked it into the fence near the benches.
This is what it said:
in this place —
the wild woop
at the crack of the bat —
of a summer that was
of a green season
and already here …
I’m brave enough to believe such things are possible. ❤