Seasons of Loss

David stood in the backyard, the baseball glove leather still smelling of his son's childhood. Tommy was twelve the last time they'd played catch, six months before the accident. Now the glove sat in David's hands like a dead thing, and he wondered how long he'd been keeping it—a martyr's relic on the shelf of his grief.

The bear of a man who'd bought the house next door last week had already made himself an enemy, complaining about the overgrown branches of David's oak tree. David had watched him from the window, all aggression and testosterone, reminding him of everything he used to be before the pyramid scheme that cost him his savings had also cost him his dignity.

That was three years ago. Sarah had left six months after the money vanished. She said it wasn't about the money, but David knew better. It was always about the money. About security. About the future they'd planned together—the house with the pool, the vacations, the retirement that now existed only as a ghost in their bank statements.

The pool had been Sarah's idea. She'd wanted something for the summer parties, for the neighbors to see. David had argued against it, said it was maintenance they didn't need. He'd been right, of course. After she left, the pool had become a standing monument to their marriage—green, neglected, collecting leaves like abandoned promises.

Yesterday, the cable guy had come to disconnect the service. Sarah's name was still on the account. The technician, young and tired-looking, had asked if he wanted to keep the premium package. David had stared at him, realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd watched anything that wasn't news or infomercials at 3 AM.

He threw the baseball toward the garage. It hit the aluminum siding with a hollow thud, echoing in the silence.

The neighbor's bear—a golden retriever, he realized now—barked back. David waved, a gesture of truce he didn't feel.

The pool needed draining. The tree needed trimming. The cable needed reconnecting. But for now, David stood in his overgrown backyard with his son's glove and a baseball, trying to remember what it felt like to hope for something that hadn't already broken him.