By Derek Harmening
Have the roots of the sycamore found you?
Does groundwater, mineral-rich in porous bedrock, cool your legs from below?
Have you light by which to read?
Of course not—silly of me to ask. Trifling reveries of the grieving. I’m still learning.
In your eighth year, we consigned you to the earth. Today, you’d be ten.
Yesterday, while emptying your closet—how small your clothes seem, how readily your scent has faded—I uncovered your baseball. Its horsehide shell scuffed and earthy, its stitches furred.
108 stitches. Ten and eight.
Providence? Coincidence? Kismet?
Or a tired father’s last comfort?
Goodnight, son.
One of those nice, quiet stories that tug at your heartstrings. Loved it.
6’5″, 260 pounds and I still felt the aching in my heart. Very well written.
Very visual and resonant.
Perfect portrait of grief. Well said, Derek, we’ll said
perfect
How hard it is to get grieving properly into words, and wow, you’ve done it.
Touched my heart and is beautifully written.
Really appreciated the poetic language.
Beautifully written!
Heartbreakingly beautiful – thank you!
This is elegantly written and devastating. Thank you.