Catch

[cfgorman]

My father and I
play catch every day.
He comes home,
we go out back,
and take our
daily places.
I don't run away
or make myself scarce
but wait for him.

We pass the ball
back and forth.
Each delivery
a message to read
a chance to interpret
the feelings hiding
within his motion
and his discontent.

I see his form
and his rhythm,
gracefully twisting
slow-motion, as his pitch
transmits his message
of expectancy
to his prospect.

He is seeking
what was lost
years before.
At his father's passing
assuming the burden of parenthood
at too young an age.
In me and in my successes
there is a way to relive
those years again.

I open my hands
and close my eyes
receiving his strike
in the pocket
of my glove.
The leather-stitched seams
stir my fingers as
I toss the ball back
in a beautiful arc,
But in my heart
there is a stone.