When I returned to writing, my father was dying. I had joined a writing group online called, ALLOW, and shared with and read other writers at various stages of their process, mostly poetry. I was reminded that as a child, I had loved to write, but it had taken a strong third to dance and art. It never occurred to me that I could continue all three of these passions and even fuse them. (I am still working on how to do that.)
Walking my dog this morning, this just came out. I use the voice memo option to keep the ideas because they come pretty fast and furious and because, with too many things on the to-do list, I am bound to forget immediately.
I remember going to camp and sitting in the grass that surrounded the ball field
And the pulsing of heat rising from each of the blades creating
A little halo, a warm hug surrounding me while I was already hot
And sweaty and sticky
Radiating from my head and dripping down my temples
And under my chin
We were playing kickball
And both teams went into the grass because it was cooler than sitting on the bench
In the hot sun
I was hoping that I was going to kick a home run
I could feel that rubber ball against my sneaker and the sound it makes ‘pwwwwwnnnng!’
I saw myself connecting before it even got to touch the plate
The grass tickled the back of my legs
Convinced me that there were bugs
crawling
Those were the days when winning at kickball and kicking a home run were crowning achievements
pathways to being raised up on shoulders, held
to the sun as top
prize, the winner
My big thighs and resolve must be meant for something,
I’d mutter to myself, tugging
My nappy braids after an hour of swimming lessons
And hair that dried drawing tighter
tougher
I'd sit in my room by myself and replay how well or poorly I'd played, having no one to share these delightful thoughts of how I might become
A winner/superstar
I didn't have the impression that they were much interested
They never did know that I was such a good kickball player
I had completely forgotten about kickball until this moment. I just had a flood of memories come back to me.. I love it when that happens. I feel the presence of little you here. I'm so glad you picked up the pen again.