The Diamond

Gray, brown buildings, factories, side work, hustle and money, kids playing on the sidewalk, talking. Black. White. Porto Rican. Shouting across fences. Growing up, hometown was something like the area behind homebase, in forced retreat. A seat to regroup after dubious wins and losses. We sat out, to the left or to the right of the catcher's box, in the on-deck circle.

That was Granny's turf.

Our "family" was out there in the seats, that elusive grand slam. Home. On occasion, everything worked out alright, and everybody cheered, at the awe of it. Winning and losing team alike, knowing that it takes two sides to make a play spectacular; till the recognizance that we are opponents still. And new attempts to steal home.

The Catch.

Back to Granny's.

Back to Granny's watch.

Back to Granny's cooking.

Back to Granny's schedule. Back to Grandpa's interventions.

Grandpa was umpire, in the Catcher's box. He made the calls, and placed bets, doled out the dough. Mom and Dad as children, just like us. Rookies. Kept short, on deck. Rivals on the same team.

Dad cut and ran from the in-laws.

Mom stopped dreaming of homeruns.

They left us, on the edge of outfield, still looking for the foul ball.

11.30.2023

Hometown challenge @ErJo1122