Conversation

Each season, the outline on the grass gets fainter. I can still see it from the window. Still run my fingers over the time-worn dirt spot where the batter's box used to be. I remember the near-whistle whoosh of bat smacking ball as it went soaring into the trees. The shouts. This is where all three boys played whiffle ball for hours. Only the youngest lives here now, and the diamond fades. Childhood fades, too. Funny how a patch on the grass holds faint echo memories like that. #smallstories