We throw a ball to one another. Yours. Mine. Yours. Mine. Yours. Sailing over the green grass from my hand to yours. Mine. Yours. The sound of the snap never sounded so sweet as it does in that moment. Mine. And you remind me – snap. “I still have it.” Yours. Mine. No matter how long it’s been, my palm always remembers the slight sting….it numbs after a while.
We don’t need to talk. Just send this sphere high into the air. It’s about the only language we speak.
We don’t talk of crosses or pentagrams. Of ashes and the body of Christ. “It really does work, ” you say. You talk of prayer, and I listen. We don’t talk of arrows, broken and unbroken. Of rainbows behind wooden doors. And the secret married life of strangers. Your children are strangers to you now.
We don’t talk of damaged hallways or spots on dishes. We don’t talk about a long drives with hammers in the trunk. We don’t talk about institutional intervention, tears and judgement.
We don’t talk…just toss a ball into the atmosphere.