He rested on the porch reading with the falling sun listening as crickets and cicadas resumed their songs from night before, their sunfall scratch and cadence that seemed eternal, ever-present in night dying light and eves, building strength as summer days waned, a false forever until—one day—it was gone as becomes to all and every season, even when memories still play and one wakes to imaginings and perceived sense and presence that, by then, are no more than memory and dream.
After work, he had gone hitting with his sons—home run derby on a broken tennis court with marestail and crabgrass, as sparse and spindly as the summer drought pastures and between-row weeds of row crop fields unsprayed.
He had gotten onto his oldest for over-swinging, for motion and body misdirection that took from, and did not add to force of swing.
“Stop,” he’d said. “Think about what you’re doing. All that motion and force without controlling it and putting it into something is just wasted effort. You don’t hit it any better. It’s worse,” he’d coached. “Think about what you’re doing. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. See yourself knocking it out.”
His son did as he had said, boy closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then—composed and focused—settled into stance.
“Don’t over-swing,” he told again. “Be smooth and let it all work together.”
His son did as he was coached, and next ball, crushed it over the far high wall of the courts out into fairway of the number nine hole beyond.
“Great hit!” he’d said. It was not enough to coach, to make it happen. One needed affirmation, reinforcement when it worked, and both were proud and felt better in son’s success.
He thought about it again, in lull of cicada song, and thought of his own life. What was he swinging for? What was the aim? What movement was misdirected? What robbed of force and purpose? What game exactly was he playing? What was the aim?
He knew all were given only so many seasons, so many swings—time that seemed endless and eternal until, one day, season and it’s songs were ended and the chance never again.
He took a draw from cigar, feeling the low burn and corporeal proof of life when other aspects seemed habit of mindless motion without aim or focused end.
He closed his eyes and focused in, breathing deep and a fuller burn as he held fire of flame within. He saw an aim and, opening, directed motion to the purpose.
He would write, as absurd as as effort to hitting a ball—over a fence or deep onto par five fairway.
It didn’t have to be consequential to bear purpose. Something was more than nothing, and if it brought satisfaction and sense of achievement—even if only for one or few, for window of seasons one is able, maybe that was enough?
Cicada and cricket songs swelled again, and he breathed away the burn of flame; writing thought while it was there.
He wrote the thought, simple and true.
“Others ask the same questions,” he spoke to himself aloud. “It is written well. Maybe it will help another find their answer,” he affirmed feeling better for the small success.