The sun is down and the sky to the West is awash in hues of pink, cobalt, vibrant blue, and four shades of gray. The warmth of the day is pushed aside by cool air.
“Two more, dad.”
“Two more. It’s getting cold.”
I throw him two more pop-ups and he catches both, basket style. It’s not how you’re supposed to catch pop-ups but I let it go. He’ll learn. Time. Catching a baseball will become instinctive for him this summer. Which way to hold the glove when the ball approaches above the waist, or below. It clicked for his older sister two years ago and I was filled with joy, joy that only a baseball lover would appreciate.
“One more.” He’d play all night if I let him.
The street lights are on. I hear the distant laugh of kids. The hum of yard equipment. Someone is getting a jump on summer.
It’s the simplest of things. Playing catch, or riding bikes, or pulling them in a wagon, the wheels clicking on the joints of the sidewalk.
It’s the cumulation of simple things that make a life.