July 2019 . . . .
Of course hot coffee in July. Don’t even start with me. This is the definition of dexterity: I can fill the coffee pot with water from the tap without looking at the fill-line on the side of the pot. Eight cups exactly, based on the weight in my hand.
The day begins so early, a rapture of robins and mockingbirds vying for my auditory attention barely after false-dawn. Those moments when daylight wants to peer over its coverlet of clouds but then slips back to sleep. Who can tell the sun what it is supposed to do? I pad downstairs, boot my computer, push yesterday’s scrap paper into the recycling bag, strap on my wristwatch, find today’s ball-cap. The Mudcats. They’re having a rough season. When your pitchers are your parent club’s, nothing is certain, nothing reliable. You are a teacher in the third grade, thinking “this child is something, something . . .” but you will never see the results of that potential, never get to catch that fireball in your own glove.
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