Lightning at the Pool Hall

Every Tuesday afternoon, Margaret makes the pilgrimage to the old community center, where Buster — a tabby cat of considerable dignity and girth — holds court beside the pool table. At eighty-two, she's finally learned what he's been teaching since 1972.

"Patience, Margie," Buster seems to say, watching through half-closed eyes as her arthritic hands line up the shot. She smiles, remembering how Harold used to laugh at her serious expression over the cue stick. Fifty years of marriage, gone now these past three years.

The first time she walked into this pool hall, lightning cracked the summer sky outside, and the power flickered. Harold brought her here on their second date, expecting to impress her with his game. Instead, Buster — then a kitten — jumped onto the table and batted the eight ball into a corner pocket.

"Even the cat's better than you, Harold!" she'd teased. He'd laughed, and she fell in love with that laugh.

Now, teaching her great-grandson Liam to play, she sees the same lightning of understanding in his eyes that she once felt. "The secret," she tells him, "is that you're not trying to beat anyone. You're just trying to find the right path."

Liam bites his lip, concentrating. His shot sends the cue ball spinning — a beautiful arc that kisses the red ball into the side pocket. Lightning flashes again in the afternoon sky, though this time no storm follows. Just memory.

"Grandma, you're really good!" Liam says.

"That's because," she whispers, "some of us need eighty years to learn what a cat knows instinctively. Watch, wait, and when the moment comes — strike with certainty."

Buster opens one eye, approving. Some lessons, Margaret realizes, are worth waiting a lifetime to understand.