The day your dad died, we played baseball.
No more than 8 of us, we took to the open grass next to the garden,
Tall sunflowers, guardians of our childhood, silently keeping watch.
We ran bases marked by rocks Shannon had carried over from the side yard.
We had wanted to be them, our older cousins,
The youngest 10 years my senior, all of them baseball players.
We listened intently as they laid out the game for our understanding.
You pitched first and I went to bat.
Not a full team, we played by altered rules,
Allowing you to chase me to any base and tag me out.
When the sun set, we walked back exhausted.
You said only, “my dad is dead,” then went inside, too tired to eat.