Roots and Thunder

I traced the grooves in my old baseball glove, worn soft by sixty Iowa summers. The leather held my father's hands, then mine, now my grandson's. At my feet, Buster thumped his tail against the porch steps—golden retriever, faithful companion, moving slow these days, just like me.

"Ready?" I called, lobbing a perfect pitch toward the tomato stakes.

Eleven-year-old Leo swung and missed, spinning himself in circles. The ball rolled to rest among the spinach plants—verdant leaves standing like sentinels in my garden. I walked over to retrieve it, knees protesting just a little.

"Your great-grandpa swore spinach made you strong," I told Leo, brushing soil from the white leather. "But somehow he never mentioned it would hide the baseball."

Leo laughed, that bright careless sound of childhood. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I looked toward the western sky.

"Storm's coming," I said. "Time to pack it in."

But Leo was already dancing through the puddles beginning to form in the driveway, arms wide, face turned upward. Then lightning cracked the horizon—a brilliant white fracture stitching heaven to earth.

Buster woofed at the rumble, anxious. "It's alright, old friend," I said, scratching behind his ears. "Some storms just pass through."

Inside, Leo pressed his face to the glass, watching water transform the backyard into a reflecting pool. "Grandpa, look at all that water!" He spun around. "Can we play baseball in the rain?"

I laughed, my chest full. "Your grandmother would never forgive me." I tousked his hair. "How about I tell you about the summer my grandfather taught me to hit a fastball instead?"

Leo climbed onto my lap, and as rain drummed against the roof, I understood what my father must have felt watching me—how love moves in circles, how we plant ourselves in others and grow beyond our own seasons. Outside, my spinach drank the rain, and somewhere beyond the storm, my own story continued in hands not yet worn by time.