Tennis Ball

An old tennis ball was in the street. It had rolled to a stop in front of the house, just under the fender of my car. I picked it up. The fuzz was worn low and the green color faded.

I remembered when tennis balls were white, and in my mind's eye watched my mother on a gritty red clay court in summer playing with her good left arm, holding both ball and racquet in one hand, loosing the ball as her swing came up and serving it sharply across. Once the serve was done and the volley begun she was fast and keen on the court, her wizened arm a passenger, polio behind her.

I thought of dogs expectant, panting upward, soggy sacred orbs dropped at my feet; loyalty, adventure, enthusiasm, pride, the joy of simply racing to and fro, the thrill of going for a ride, and tossed the ball into my back seat.

~~

Doug Logan, 2018