The Fourth Inning Stretch

Margaret sat on her front porch, the old **baseball** glove resting on her lap like a sleeping cat. It had been Arthur's—his father's before that—soft leather worn smooth by sixty years of catch games in the backyard. She could almost smell the linseed oil he'd rubbed into it every spring, ritual as planting the garden.

"Grandma?" Emma's voice crackled through the **iPhone** propped on the wicker table. Margaret had finally let her granddaughter teach her to use the video call feature last month, though she still felt like she was shouting into a tiny mirror whenever she talked.

"I'm here, sweet pea. Just sitting with your grandfather's glove."

Emma's face filled the screen—she was at a park somewhere, sunlight catching the dark curls that made her look so like Arthur had at twenty. "Remember how you used to say Grandpa could predict weather by his knee?"

Margaret chuckled. "Your grandfather's knee was more reliable than the radio. But he also taught me this trick." She held up her own hand, **palm** open, studying the lines that had deepened like riverbeds over eighty-two years. "He said your head line shows how stubborn you are. Mine's longer than the Mississippi."

"Like your hat collection," Emma teased. "I still have that blue one from the funeral."

Margaret's hand went to her head—she was indeed wearing Arthur's favorite **hat**, the faded blue cap with the embroidered baseball. She hadn't realized she'd put it on that morning, muscle memory deeper than thought. Some days she forgot what she'd had for breakfast but remembered exactly how Arthur's laugh sounded when she'd accidentally worn this hat backwards at their fiftieth anniversary party.

"You know," she said softly, "your grandfather used to say life was like baseball. You get your turns at bat, but what matters is who's in the dugout cheering." She traced the glove's stitching. "I'm still in the dugout, Emma. Just watching from a different seat now."

Emma's eyes shimmered. "I'm coming over Saturday. We'll play catch."

"You've never thrown a ball in your life."

"Then it's time I learned. Mom says you were quite the pitcher in your day."

Margaret smiled, setting the glove aside. The morning sun warmed the porch boards, and somewhere in the distance, she heard the familiar crack of a bat from the neighborhood park. Spring again. Arthur always said the fourth inning was when the game truly began.

"Saturday it is," she said. "But bring your own glove. This one's spoken for."