The Old Baseball Cap

Evelyn sat on her back porch, the worn **baseball** cap perched on her silver hair—a faded blue thing with the letters 'DAD' embroidered across the front. Her grandson Toby, just eight years old, had insisted she wear it today. He said it made her look like a proper coach.

'Grandma, throw it already!' Toby called out from the backyard, where he'd set up home plate with an old pizza box.

Evelyn's golden retriever, Barnaby, lifted his head from the **water** bowl, panting happily in the afternoon heat. He'd been her companion since Arthur passed five years ago—her faithful **dog** who understood loss without needing words.

She tossed the ball gently. Toby swung and missed, spinning around like a top.

'Your grandfather had the same problem,' Evelyn said, smiling. 'Always swinging too hard. Life too, not just **baseball**.'

The **orange** sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in hues of apricot and coral—just like the sunsets she and Arthur had watched from this same porch for forty-seven years. She remembered him peeling oranges on Sunday mornings, the citrus scent filling their tiny kitchen, saving the best sections for her.

'Grandma?' Toby had abandoned the bat and climbed onto the porch step beside her. 'Why do you keep Grandpa's old **hat**?'

Evelyn's fingers traced the frayed brim. 'Because sometimes, when I wear it, I can still feel him telling me to keep my eye on the ball. Even when the game seems too hard, and the pitches keep coming.'

Barnaby nudged Toby's hand, demanding attention. The boy laughed, scratching behind the dog's ears.

'My dad says you're lonely out here by yourself,' Toby said quietly.

Evelyn looked at the **water** glass on the table, condensation dripping like time itself. 'Lonely isn't the same as alone, sweet pea. Your grandfather is in the **orange** glow of evening, in Barnaby's greeting when I come home, in every pitch you swing at and miss.' She adjusted the **hat**. 'He's even in this old **baseball** cap, reminding me that love—like a good game—never really ends. It just changes innings.'

Toby considered this, then retrieved his bat. 'One more pitch, Grandma? Before the sun goes down?'

Evelyn stood up, her knees creaking just a little. 'One more. Always one more.'

Barnaby barked his approval as the **orange** light caught the flying ball, and for a moment, everything was exactly as it should be.