The Glove

It is important to put the ball inside the glove
and wrap it in rubber bands for a week,
to put the glove under your mattress, to sleep
and when you sleep, to dream of wearing
the glove, of making the catch, of being carried
into the middle of the diamond lifted toward
the sun. In the cul de sac, dad whacked
a pop fly for the hundredth time. Obscured
by light, plummeting toward me, I could see
nothing until the ball hit me square on the head.
It is important to dream. It is equally important
to practice. Years later, dad wants to see
the Tigers, even though Tigers fans don’t
want to see the Tigers. Dad’s nostalgia
transcends a losing record. He is proud in a way
that transcends failures. He is always happy
when he can remember, and maybe more so
when he cannot. Smiling gleeful at strangers
as though playing catch with his smile
when others smile back. It is easy to be happy
for his happiness, though easier to feel pain
when he forgets or even pretend
none of this is happening. Everywhere I walk
I feel like I slept on a lump, like the lump
is growing into something more true
every day, and when I take out the glove
to put it on, I will be able to catch meaning
out of the sky, and when I understand,
the truth will lift me into the light.