“I know things. For instance,
there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary
and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.”

I wonder if he knew, the good Catholic
boy from Holy Rosary Church in
Globeville, the church his parents
from Yugoslavia help build.

I wish he was here so I could tell him.
I know it would make him smile.

The opening pitch won’t ring too loud
in our house tomorrow as in seasons past,
TV blaring so he could hear,
unable to see the ball cross the base,
just a blur of figures to his well-worn eyes.

Two black caps with silver and purple
letters, still nest on the top shelf
in the closet hallway.

One salt stained from working
the lawn or watering my garden, a time
when that was still possible.

The other pristine, guardian angel pin
tacked, just so, between the C and the R
and only worn grocery shopping.
That, too, a long gone chore.

The Colorado Rockies will open
their day tomorrow, my dad’s chair empty.
But he’ll be watching, I know.

I wish I could tell him there are
108 stitches on that opening throw,
just like the 108 beads on his rosary,
the one I should have buried with him.
The 108 beads I kept.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

NaPoWriMo Day 9. Not using the prompt today.

Tomorrow is opening day for the Colorado Rockies. It’s their 20th anniversary. My dad, a lifelong baseball fan, was thrilled to finally have a major league team. I remember summers with my dad and cousin at Bear’s Stadium, the minor league team when I was a girl. Then we saw the Zephyrs blow in, and finally, The Colorado Rockies.

My dad was a diehard fan. He never went to the new ballpark, only once or twice. He preferred a closeup view, comfortable in his kitchen chair.

My dad died in January at 94, by the way he counted. He really was 93, but we gave up arguing. What does a year or two matter when what really matters is baseball?

And thank you to my friend Carol Timblin for the quote from Bull Durham.