Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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For you, Dad, I turn on the ballgame. It doesn’t matter which game, exactly, does it? So familiar, the way you spent the long hours of your freedom, soaking up the drama, huge warrior men in combat, lifting themselves out of the mud; rooting as if it all mattered, as if this were the real work of men, as if we were going to live forever and this was the best we could do, watch. At the end, after the field goal from the 37 in the final seconds, I can’t raise my hollow male body from the chair.
Lou Lipsitz