Striking an arch through the blue sky, playing peek-a-boo with fluffy clouds, the little white balls plunk into the fields of green. Wrinkles and creases criss cross the tan leather skin of his hands like tattooed storyboards, as he slips off the well worn golf gloves. His eyes are easy as his smile surveying the polka dotted landscape. Brushed steel buckets in hand we go off to collect them.
Soon enough, we will slip into the kitchen and I will prepare him a tomato sandwich and he will smile again as his gums push through the texture into the juicy goodness. For now though, we relive Easter egg hunts as we chase down the dimpled golf balls returning them to the recesses of the shop until next time.
Some days we pull out the old riding lawn mower and I travel in ever diminishing circles as I cut their grass, a meditation on a simple life. Occasionally an errant golf ball we miss in our searching will fly true out the chute on the side of the mower, propelled by the blade. Cracked, the hard shell gives way to one of the mysteries of life...the nuclear center of the golf ball. Poison, power, combustion...all these thoughts dance in our adolescent dreams when i smuggle them home.
Running the sharp edge of the blade over the rubber bands of the second layer, digging for the center, we are sure we are going to blow the house up, maybe even the town. Anticipation rewards us with...not even a poof. Just one of the mysteries of life discovered while sharing...
Thoughts on taking care of my Great Uncle Lawrence as he grew older.
For more takes on the theme go to Theme Thursday.