The Seventh Inning Stretch

The water bottle sat condensating on the concrete beside him, a small pool forming at its base like tears that refused to fall. David hadn't cried since the funeral, hadn't allowed himself the luxury. He watched the baseball game unfold below—his son's Little League championship, the one Sarah had been counting down to since March. She should be here. She'd be the one shouting until her voice gave out, the one with the camera ready, the one who'd insisted on buying that ridiculous oversized foam finger.

His iphone vibrated in his pocket. Another condolence message from someone who'd fallen off their radar years ago, now suddenly invested in his grief. He didn't pull it out. Some texts didn't deserve answers.

A vendor passed. "Beer! Get your ice cold beer!" The familiar rhythm of a baseball afternoon, unchanged by the void that had opened in David's life. He adjusted his hat—Sarah's hat, actually, a faded Dodgers cap she'd worn since college. It smelled faintly of her shampoo, coconut and something uniquely her. He'd promised himself he'd return it to the closet after today, but his fingers kept finding their way to the brim, twisting it like a worry stone.

His son, Leo, stepped up to the plate. The pitcher wound up, released. Leo connected—*crack*—and the ball sailed toward right field. He rounded first, then second, his face alive with that fierce joy David hadn't seen since before the diagnosis. The crowd roared. David's chest constricted.

He stood up, his hands finding the hat's brim again, and finally—finally—let himself feel it all. The water in his eyes spilled over, hot and relentless. Some endings, he realized, weren't really endings at all. Sarah was gone, yes, but she was also here: in Leo's determined stance, in the hat on his head, in the way the afternoon light caught the dust motes floating above the field.

"Way to go, Leo!" David shouted, his voice cracking, and he thought he heard her answer in the wind.