The Ninth Inning of Memory

Elena stood on the dock where her brother used to play catch, the baseball still fresh in her mind even after twelve years. The water below reflected the gray sky, a mirror to the hollow space in her chest where family used to be.

She'd come to sell the house, finally. The realtor had asked about the dog—a golden retriever named Buster who'd slept at the foot of their father's bed every night until the cancer took him. Buster had been gone eleven years now.

"You're making a mistake," her sister had said over the phone that morning. "Dad wouldn't want you to sell."

Elena had laughed without humor. "Dad wouldn't want a lot of things that happened."

In the attic, she'd found his old baseball cap, stained with sweat and years. She'd pressed it to her face, smelling nothing but dust and time, but for a moment, she could almost feel the weight of his hand on her shoulder, hear his voice saying, "Keep your eye on the ball, El."

The water lapped against the pilings. She thought about the summer after it happened—how she'd spent days by the lake, skipping stones until her fingers bled, as if the water could carry her grief away.

Now she was forty-two, same age as her mother when she'd died. The symmetry of it all sometimes kept her up at night.

"You're doing the right thing," she told herself, though the words felt hollow.

Behind her, a neighbor's dog barked—a cheerful sound that belonged to a world she no longer inhabited. She adjusted the baseball cap on her head, her father's baseball cap, and watched as the water continued its indifferent rhythm against the shore.

Some losses, she understood now, were like extra innings: they went on and on, long after you thought the game should have ended.