Retirement Home

I took my place at the head of the table. How many times had I been here before? Looking down at the table, I see my six grown men, seated with their wives, who have each have grown plumper over the years. Each is laughing, joking with the the other, the table beside us Clarice asks me if it is my birthday. I tell her no, my boys just came for a visit. I should feel lucky, no one else in this s**t hole gets visitors as often as I do.

 I fumble with my spoon, trying to hold it up to my mouth with my knurled, bruised hands. I struggled to hold the spoon. I used to be able to hold baseballs. I would feel the stitches around my fingers. Fix my hat, look back to make sure those b******s weren't trying to steal a base on me, then form my fingers into a curve ball. I had a fast arm, and a deceiving off speed pitch that made the papers, and she with her dresses, and bows was pure perfection, smiling at me from the stands. She was my entire world. I was a 17 year old kid then. One who loved only two things, Dorthy, and baseball. Then one day their she was. I lifted her veil, looking into those blue eyes, knowing then we weren't kids anymore. But I didn't care, she was the most beautiful woman, and I was a fool she married.

The day I was drafted was the first time I had ever seen her cry. She buried her head into my chest, face turning as red as her hair, making me promise to stay alive for our baby. I had just found out about the baby. I missed his birth, but cried when I saw him, although she's the only one who knows that. Back then if you were a man you didn't cry. We had six boys by the end of it. Almost enough for a baseball team, I'd joke. She loved her boys. She used to pour herself over these photo albums with every little move the boys would make, framing countless photos around the house. She used to take the same photo every year, herself in the middle, and the boys either beside her, or in back of her. These photos would become what decorates my room at this place. When dinner is over my boys come back to my room. "See dad? This place isn't so bad". I just grunt, and look away. He doesn't understand what it's like to lose your best friend. I dream about her sometimes at night. Wings wide, and pearly white, reaching out for me, taking me into those soft white arms. Her red hair is flowing, and she is young again, and I am too. I am wearing my baseball uniform, my fingers curling over the stitches of the ball. When I am called home, I hope it is done exactly this way. 

Author's Note

Not exactly sure where this came from. Just popped in my mind one day.

Reviews

[Luke L]

Lovely piece, great write :) This seems to come from a real place, even if it is fiction. If you write something like this though, maybe space it out a bit more, because it's kind of hard to read in this format.

[Quoting Ravens]

That's very sweet. Tugged my heart a bit