Catch With Dad

I was eight, playing catch with Dad after Sunday school in our backyard. I can smell the linseed oil we used to work into new mitts and feel the snug fit of the glove along the contour of my right hand.

There was a grace about it as the baseball arced responsibly (elegantly) back and forth. It was one of those very rare moments where you’re so pleased to be alive without really knowing it, a part of all there is, the universe offering you the gift of this experience. 

Each moment is new and glorious, so embedded in the fabric of your being are you at that time. 

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