Alone, in my newly redone room, I start sifting through the amassed piles of junk in my closet. I pull the first box on my shelf and find a shoebox time-capsule, pt together a couple of years ago with some friends. I look at the note on it, telling us not to open for four more years. I remember that we agreed to get together and open it when the time came. At that time, we would read the notes we had written ourselves and each other. I shake the box and put it back.
The next box taken down from the abyss contains old camp photographs from several years ago and other odds and ends that would hold no meaning to any other person. Bits, of shells, a neat-looking rock, a fossil, and a strip of plastic, the kind used to indicate future pruning or removal of trees. I decided this was probably from some game of playing pretend, the memory of which escaped me at the moment. I add the contents of this box to an on going “memory box,” which contains similar photos and other pieces of “junk.”
I pull the next two boxes down, and open each of them in turn. Inside I find fossils and such, mementos from a long-ago science class. Subconsciously, I run through each and every class, recalling the good times, every giggle, every joke shared in that class.
Silently, I pack the boxes back up and put each container, filled with laughter and fun, jokes and good times, future and past, back onto the top shelf of my cluttered closet. Organizing can wait, while I sit down at my computer and write down my boxes of memories.
The ball hit the side of the house, bounced once on the asphalt and came back to James’ ungloved hand.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
Over and over he repeated this motion, the neon green tennis ball a shining light in the air.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
“I. Hate. Him.”
The words were in rhythm with the ball, muttered as the ball hit each target.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
James’ dog, Marley, looked on with pleading eyes, his long golden coat shining in the summer afternoon sun, but he knew better than to try and play with the ball when his master was so angry. So, he lay there, waiting for James to go inside.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
This beat continued for thirty minutes, occasionally startled by a slip of hand, and ending up with the ball bouncing twice.
Thwock. Thud. Thud. Slap.
The motion felt good to James. His anger powering the ball and driving it to the side of the house.
I must remember to get mad right before the championship, James thought. He was the pitcher for their team –The Allstars– and they had a good shot at winning the championship this year. If James could pitch like this then, they would definitely defeat the Eagles, their number one rival team.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
That is, if he could get back onto the team.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
“I. Hate. Him.”
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
James was talking about his coach, who yesterday had kicked him off the team, because James had gotten to a fight with a guy from the Eagles, and “accidentally” clipped him in the jaw.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
It wasn’t really his fault, James reasoned, because the other guy, Corey, had started it. Called The Allstars a bunch of losers and said they had no chance of getting anywhere. Besides, Corey had swung first.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
James started to feel himself calming down. It was his fault, too, he reasoned, because he had hit him back. Just because he was provoked didn’t mean he had the right to hit the guy.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
Marley eyed the ball, watching its motion and feeling his muscles twitch, dying to leap after it. But good training and animal instinct kept him his place, although he couldn’t help but give out a whine.
Thwock. Thud. Slap.
“Here, have it.” James tossed the tennis ball to the dog, who immediately jumped up from the driveway and caught in his mouth. He looked after James, who was climbing the steps to the door and dialing on his cell phone, with a pleading expression. But his willingness to play was lost on the retreating back of his master.
“Yeah, Coach. It’s James. Look, I just wanted to apologize…”
As James entered the house, Marley proceeded to chew the green fuzz off the ball.
