The Palm of Memory

Elena pressed the ticket stub against her **palm**, the paper soft and warm from her grip. Three years since Mark left, and somehow she'd ended up back here—Section 114, Row F, seat 12—the exact spot where he'd first slipped his arm around her shoulders.

The **baseball** game unfolded below like a distant dream. Top of the seventh, two outs, a man on second. Elena should have been watching. She'd paid fifty dollars for this ticket, another thirty for the overpriced chardonnay warming in the plastic cup holder. But her mind kept circling back to that night three years ago, to the way Mark's dark **hair** had caught the stadium lights as he turned to her, eyes wide with something that looked like forevers.

"You okay, honey?"

The elderly woman beside her touched Elena's arm. Elena realized she'd been crying.

"Fine," she said. "Just... memories."

The woman nodded knowingly. "First time back?"

Elena nodded.

"It gets easier," she said, then pointed toward the field. "Watch this."

A crack of the bat. The ball sailed toward them, rising impossibly high. For a second, time suspended—the collective breath of forty thousand people, the upturned faces, the white ball against darkening sky.

Then it dropped, landing three rows behind them.

"Life's like that," the woman said, patting Elena's hand. "You think you know where it's going. Then—curveball."

Elena laughed through the tears. She looked at her palm, still holding the ticket stub, then pressed it flat against her heart. The inning ended. The crowd roared. And for the first time in three years, Elena thought she might actually be ready for whatever came next.