The Weight of Empty Patches

The orange sky bled into twilight as I stood on the overgrown baseball field where Danny and I had spent every summer of our youth. The backstop was rusted now, a skeleton of what it had been—much like our friendship. We'd stopped speaking five years ago after the accident, after I chose my career over being there for him when his mother died. Guilt is a bear you carry on your shoulders, heavy and suffocating, and I'd been bearing mine for far too long.

I knelt by home plate, now a rotted piece of wood in the dirt, and remembered the way Danny used to pitch—wild and reckless, like he was trying to throw himself into a different life. He'd sent me a postcard last month, from some small town in Oregon. Just one sentence: "Still thinking about that game we almost won."

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of approaching rain. I'd come here to find closure, but there was no such thing—only the messy, knotted reality of things left unsaid. A real bear had been spotted near these woods last summer, they said. Dangerous, unpredictable. But the real danger was in the quiet moments, the spaces between words where regret festered.

I pulled the orange from my pocket—the same color as the sunset, as Danny's old team jersey. It was slightly bruised, like both of us. I took a bite, bitter and sweet, and finally pulled out my phone. The bear on my shoulders lightened, just a little, as I typed his number.

"Hey," I'd say when he answered. "I'm at the field. Remember that pitch? The one that almost changed everything?" Some games never really end. You just have to step back up to the plate.