Lightning Over Left Field

The **water** in Glass Lake was still as glass, which seemed cruel given how much David's life was churning. At 47, two months divorced, he sat on the same bench where he'd first told Sarah he loved her. That day, her **hair** had been tangled from swimming, smelling of lake weeds and her vanilla shampoo. He'd thought that mess of brown strands was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Now she was someone else's problem.

His son Jackson was playing **baseball** on the diamond below, the same field where David had coached him for three seasons before the separation made everything logistics and schedules and careful neutrality. Jackson struck out looking, and David felt the familiar gut punch—not disappointment, just the accumulated weight of all the moments he couldn't be there for anymore.

"He's growing up," said Melanie, Jackson's mother, sitting beside him without asking. They'd been doing this dance since spring: parallel existence at children's events, careful conversations about grades and dentist appointments. "He asked about you last night. Why you don't come to dinner anymore."

"What did you say?"

"The truth. That adults make choices and children live with them." She stood up, shaking out her perfect blonde **hair**—cut short since the divorce, practical and severe and nothing like the woman he'd married. "I'm getting coffee. You want to pretend to be civil for five minutes?"

"Pass."

**Lightning** struck beyond the treeline, a white fracture through the gray sky. The umpire called the game. Parents scrambled for coolers and chairs, but David sat still, watching the storm roll across the **water**. He'd played **baseball** in college, dreamed of the minors until his shoulder gave out at 22. That felt like another life, another person.

Jackson ran up the hill, dirt on his uniform, sweat on his forehead. "Dad! Did you see me almost hit that home run?"

"I saw it." David ruffled his son's hair, already showing the first signs of the curl his mother's had had at that age. "You're getting faster."

"Mom says you're moving to the city."

David hesitated. The **lightning** flashed again, closer this time, illuminating the confusion in his son's face. He thought about his apartment, empty boxes stacked in corners, the strange freedom of having no one to answer to.

"Sometimes," David said, as the first cold drop hit his wrist, "you have to get struck by **lightning** before you realize you can survive the burn." He stood up, pulling his son close as the sky opened and the **water** came down, washing everything clean.