Keep diving, son. Keep diving.

You were great out there today. I was never into baseball as a kid, lived too far away from people, but you play right field like you were born for it. Of course your uniform was a disaster before the 3rd inning. You don’t have to dive for every ball, you know. Your mom spent a lot of time getting that uniform to be white as the day it was new. Ha! Yeah, I don’t know why she bothers either. Great grab in the 5th. You should have seen the look on their coach’s face when you snagged that easy triple right out of the air. That hitter was built like a tank, but it didn’t even matter, did it? Power doesn’t mean anything if they can’t get on base.

Keep diving, son. Keep diving.

You were great out there today.

But running. Now running, that’s where your passion lies. You used to give your mom a fit time when you take off down the street. You just take off down the street and end up at some neighbor’s house blocks away like it was nothing. You know your mom has a whole network of spies amongst the neighbors, don’t you? Probably never crossed your mind that she would worry. You’re old enough to take care of yourself, after all. I know, I know. You had a birthday in December. Ten is certainly a mature age. Double digits even! But your mom always knows where you are. The neighbors for a mile in every direction know to call her if you show up unannounced. She loves you very much. I get texts almost every day during the summer detailing your travels while I am at work. I hear that Mrs Evans makes the best lemonade in the neighborhood. Guess that is why you frequent her home more than others. I know you wait until right before dinnertime to come back so you have an excuse to run all the way home. So much energy! So vibrant! You told me that Mr Andrews tells you to slow down every time you fly past his front porch, a flury of movement and joy that God has reserved for youth. Don’t worry about him. I’ll talk to him. He just wishes he still had that joy.

Keep running, son. Keep running.

Running my fingers over the Dec 9th, 1998 etched in the stone marker, I place the blue toy truck I brought on the ground with the others, and rise from kneeling.

I love you, son.

I turn and begin the endless journey back to my car.