July 22, 2014

running bases at the Field of Dreams

It seemed like a gimmick from a distance, and when Craig opined,
over pie and coffee at the highway restaurant, about the place,
the mystic whisper of those rows of corn, I rolled my eyes a little. It was hard
to believe a leftover lot from a movie scene would hold any slice
of magic. But we drove there anyway, and arriving, I saw a boy
and his sister throw baseball after baseball at their father, bent
in full catcher stance at home plate. With every throw, a jolt of small joy
hit me, too, and suddenly, all I wanted to do was run. We took off, went
sprinting as fast as our legs would take us, the bases like a road
we’d come from and maybe, maybe a path to where we’d go.