Palm Readings at the Ballpark

The vitamin C bottle rattled in my pocket as I slid into the stadium seat, third base line, exactly where Mark always sat. Six months since the funeral, and I was still keeping our Tuesday baseball ritual alive like some kind of bereavement penance.

"You're here again," said the woman beside me, palm outstretched. She was older, maybe sixty, with eyes that had seen too many innings. "You want me to read it?"

I stared at her hand, then at mine—same line patterns, same sun-damaged skin, same quiet tremor that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with grief. Mark had been the one who believed in this stuff. Palm readings, astrology, the cosmic choreography of loss.

"My friend used to say—" I started, then stopped. The words still felt like swallowing glass.

"He's still here," she said, tapping the center of my palm. "See this line? It doesn't end. It just changes direction."

I thought of Mark's golden retriever, Buster, who'd stopped eating after the accident. I'd been caring for the dog, forcing those same vitamins down his throat every morning, wondering who I was really trying to keep alive.

The baseball game blurred below us—someone hit a home run, the crowd roared, but I couldn't feel it. I could only feel the weight of Mark's last voicemail, still saved on my phone: "See you Tuesday, buddy. Don't forget the vitamins."

"That dog," the woman said suddenly. "He's not grieving anymore. He's just waiting."

My breath caught. "How did you—"

She closed my fingers into a fist. "Because love doesn't leave. It just learns to live in different rooms." She stood up, stretching. "Same time next week?"

I watched her walk away, then pulled the vitamin bottle from my pocket. The rattling sound was different now—less like a death knell, more like a promise kept.

Below, the baseball sailed through the humid air. Buster was home, probably sleeping on Mark's favorite chair. And for the first time in six months, I didn't hate myself for noticing the sunset.