Balls

Looking at a tennis ball reminds me of the last time we played together at the Woolley courts. Finding his football in the garage is hard; we threw that thing around a lot, running hard, catching passes, dodging tackles. Discovering the little pink bouncy ball is particularly sad. We had played quite a bit of handball against the garage, then switched to using the wood paddles, which he liked a lot. The thought of never playing tennis or football or handball with him ever again hits me hard, what could be worse than never seeing or hearing your son again? It makes me so sour, so down, where just the act of being, of existing from minute to minute, hurts so much. The unjustness of it all digs at me, makes me angry and moody. Is it so much to expect your kid to live? Why am I deprived of this most basic pleasure? Fate forces me to turn away from family to find happiness, which is the opposite of my intentions for all these years.